She Flies With Her Own Wings
by RainyDaysAnyways
Summary: When her father moved the family from the Seam to the forests of Oregon, Katniss thought she would never again see the Boy with the Bread. Now grown, the tough logger's daughter has arranged to take over as schoolteacher at Camp 7. Her plans are thwarted when college boy Peeta Mellark, fresh off the train, gets the job instead. AU set in the 1910s, inspired by LM Montgomery.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is my first fanfic. I've loved many of the historical AU stories for THG I've read on this site. I was inspired by my girlhood love of the Anne of Green Gables series and my interest in the history of the American West to conceive a story that sends Katniss to Oregon, my home state. The title "She Flies With Her Own Wings" is the Oregon state motto, and it seemed fitting for Katniss. **

**The prologue here is a way for me to dip my toes in the water before jumping in all the way. It takes place in the middle of the story. When Katniss's father moves the family to a small logging town in northeastern Oregon, Katniss assumes she will never again see the Boy with the Bread. Fate brings them together again years later, when both have become schoolteachers-Katniss chooses teaching as a way to stay close to her family, Peeta as a way to avoid his. Future chapters will reveal more about the circumstances that separated them and bring them back together.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_**.**  
**

**Fall 1916**

Seasons of accumulated pine needles softened the sounds of footfall as he approached. She was just 15 yards ahead of him now. He stayed downwind of her, like the good hunter that he was. He drew close enough to catch the warm-apple scent of her skin.

She stood in the clearing with her back to him. The evening breeze played at a group of unruly tendrils that had worked their way free from the thick braid slung over her left shoulder. She reacted just slightly to alleviate the tickle of the hairs against the base of her neck. The movement would have been imperceptible to anyone who had spent less time studying Katniss Everdeen than Peeta Mellark had.

Katniss gathered her focus and raised her bow. With her keen senses trained on some deer or elk hidden among the distant ponderosas, she was less likely to notice that she herself was being watched. The wind kicked up again and rustled the fabric of her cream skirt. She paused a moment to gauge its direction and adjust her shot. The waning sun cast a soft orange halo around her, making it appear as if she was on fire. Her strong, slender legs were silhouetted through muslin worn thin by seasons of washing and outdoor use.

He moved stealthily to close the distance. He knew he should be cautious, should take advantage of the trees to cover him in case she turned in his direction. But he would risk discovery to keep a clear line of sight on her. Luckily, he walked quietly in the woods, judging the placement of each step just right so as not to give away his presence.

He reached her undetected, stood just a step behind her. Still unaware, she readied practiced fingers to release the bowstring, body tensed to her task. But before she could let the arrow fly, he leaned down and grazed hot lips against the soft skin below her left ear. She gasped. The weapon fell through her hands.

"Didn't think I could track you here?"

She spun on her heels to face him. Grey eyes locked on his, shining and unafraid. Her voice was steady. "You're the only one I thought could track me here." She did her best to appear solemn, but the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile. Was she teasing him? God, he loved her daring. Always had.

Swiftly and surely, he reached out to capture her face in his hands. He paused just long enough to catch her surprise before his lips crashed onto hers.

He wove his fingers into her braid, unbinding her dark tresses. The soft waves were animated by the breeze, swirling around her flushed cheeks. She never wore it down like this—he had wondered if perhaps only her sister saw it unbraided—and his heart swelled as he took in the transformation. He thought her beautiful with her braid. It was practical and suited to a woman of action. But he had often been curious as to what that long hair might look like falling loose around her shoulders. The effect was stunning. While planting rows of kisses across her forehead and cheeks, he managed to notice that her hair wasn't really black, as he had always thought, but had glints of dark reddish brown, like mahogany, in the sunlight. He kissed her mouth again, sucking gently at her bottom lip. He could hardly believe that he was feeling that long dark hair brush against _his_ neck now. That _his_ hands could cause her to moan slightly as he ran them through her lovely locks.

Emboldened, he deepened the kiss, allowing his tongue to find hers. Her eager lips had no trouble keeping pace. She tasted like apples, as he thought she would, but also faintly of wood smoke and pine.

He risked sliding his right hand down to her waist. Through her shirt, he could trace the gentle topography of muscle along her shoulders, made strong by years of hunting and foraging in the woods. With the heel of his palm, he kneaded circles along the small of her back, fingertips wrapped around her hip so they would not be tempted to seek the hem of her blouse. She inhaled sharply and reached her arms up around his neck.

Surely his erection must be apparent to her as she pressed her small frame closer to him. He broke away, drawing back to check her response. When he met dark eyes as desirous as his own, he grinned wolfishly.

"Katniss..." His voice was gravelly, unfamiliar to his own ears. "You have no idea how long I've wanted you."

"Oh, Peeta," she sighed. "I do know. I've always known." Her eyes moved hungrily to his mouth. She leaned in closer, shifting up onto her tiptoes. He could feel her soft breath and anticipated the heat of her lips claiming his own. Her body was pressed so tightly against him now...

_Oh, holy hell!_

This was the second time in a month. It had been awkward enough the first time, just a week after he had moved into the baker's attic room. He wasn't sure that he had been successful then in convincing the baker's wife that he simply preferred to do his own washing. Perhaps no pretense on his part could overcome the oddity of finding a still-strange young man bent over the washtub, elbows deep in suds, washing linens at half past five on a rainy Tuesday morning.

"Really, Mr. Mellark," Mrs. Simpson had guffawed. "I would have done them myself with the rest of the laundry on Thursday."

A deep blush had blazed up his neck to his ears. _Having raised two sons, she couldn't make this any easier? _He grasped for the most delicate excuse he could offer. His ears only burned brighter when it finally occurred to him that perhaps, having raised two sons, she knew exactly what had occurred, no excuse required.

He sighed and shifted onto his side, careful not to roll off the narrow bed. His fingertips reached down to confirm what his eyes couldn't in the darkness.

_Argh. Seriously, Mellark. What are you, 15 again?_

It was Friday. All the sheets in the house had been dutifully laundered the day prior. He could think of no possible reason—_other than the obvious_—to wash them again today.

With his release now _fait accompli_, Peeta wished he could slip back into the dream. They weren't always about Katniss. But the best ones, the only ones he ever tried to remember, were. It would be impossible to fall back asleep now, so precariously perched between the wet spot and the edge of the bed.

He really ought to be a bit more... _anticipatory_ in taking care of himself. But that kind of effort always triggered a fierce internal battle, even more so since he had found her again. This was the real Katniss now, not an ideal he had built upon far-off memories. The real Katniss was a colleague, one he would have to face in a professional capacity in their meetings with Superintendent Abernathy. As schoolteachers, the State of Oregon, the Wallowa School District, and the families of their students expected them to serve as models of decorum. He shouldn't think of _her_ when he was doing_ that_. He respected her. Admired her tremendously, in truth. And he was a gentleman, wasn't he?

But when he could no longer fend off the images of Katniss, when they took root in his fantasies as they inevitably did, it was never long before the thought of her sent him over the edge. Katniss, so at home in the woods, goddess of the hunt. Katniss, skin bronzed and cheeks glowing, pursuing her prey through pine forests and golden grasslands. Katniss, quiet and intense, fiercely protective of those she held dear. In his dreams, he could disarm her. In his dreams, he walked alongside her. In his dreams, she allowed him to care for her, rewarded him with her smile and laughter. She held him dear, held him close, _so close_. She wanted him just as he wanted her. When they pressed tight to one another, when their lips crashed together, it felt so true and right that—despite all the reasons in the waking world—in this dream world, neither found any reason to stop. Their mouths blazed hot trails through hidden terrain. Fingertips tore at buttons and bindings. Skin burned against skin. His name fell from her tongue as their bodies arched together.

The better part of him felt ashamed. Katniss was so pure. Not in the perfunctory way that you would say all respectable unmarried young ladies were pure, but pure from sheer _obliviousness_ more than any willed effort at righteous behavior. _She had no idea, the effect she could have._ And she would be rightfully horrified at what a monster he was if she had any idea of the things he imagined doing with her.

If the same things happened in a dream,though... that was beyond his control, wasn't it? And if he replayed the dreams a few times in his head upon waking... well, hadn't Freud demonstrated the scientific value of dream interpretation for gaining insight into the psyche? On this general point, he agreed with Freud. All that garbage about Oedipus though... his mind flashed on his mother's hawkish countenance, and he no longer had any desire to remain in bed.

He fumbled in the darkness to guide match to filament. The flame danced around his fingertips, the draft from an open window threatening to put it out. Peeta's eyes smarted at the sudden contrast when the lamp finally flared. It was about time to rise anyway, he guessed.

Mr. Simpson had informed Peeta several times—_insisted_—that his help in the bakery wasn't required on weekdays before school. But Peeta knew from all the times Cal had slept through the Saturday shift at their own family's bakery that the morning tasks went much more quickly with two people. Mr. Simpson recognized this too, and his protests had ceased after the first few days.

Peeta didn't mind anyway. The familiar rhythms of the bakery calmed him. They steadied his mind, just as they had when he was younger and worked alongside his father before school. As a boy, he used the time to replay the adventure stories he read before bed or think through the physics problems that Will liked to draw up for him. He would also occasionally seek his father's advice about other kinds of problems.

"_Um, Dad... can I ask you something?" _

"_Anything, Peet m'boy." _

"_How did you know it was her?" _

"_Hmm? Your mother?" _

"_No... _her_... when you were my age." _

"_I, uh, probably shouldn't have said anything about that, son... I hope that didn't upset you. You know I love our family. I love you, and your brothers. You were such a little guy then, Peet, I honestly didn't think you'd still remember after all these years."_

"_I'm not upset, not at all. It's just... I haven't forgotten. And I need to know what you're supposed to do when there's someone that you... can't forget."_

His father was a good man, gentle and open. Peeta missed him terribly. He thought of their parting conversation in the parlor of his parents' imposing new home in Pittsburgh.

_It was one of his father's bad days. The man sat in a plush chair situated where sunlight angled in through a tall window. A stack of newspapers sat on an end table within easy reach. Yet for at least half an hour Peeta had watched his father shake open the business section, thumb through the pages pausing for a casual glance at the stock report, and fold it neatly closed before beginning the process again with the same section a few minutes later._

_Peeta's vision began to blur, and tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks. He dragged a heavy chair so that he sat facing his father. The sound must have carried upstairs, because his mother bellowed down at him that that the floors had just been refinished and _was he trying to ruin them?_ He rolled his eyes. What _hadn't _he ruined for her? She'd certainly had some choice words for him when he refused to fall in line with the engagement to Glimmer Garnier she'd all but announced in _The Gazette Times _upon his arrival in June. But Peeta's father was unfazed by the intrusion. Peeta took perverse comfort in thinking that whatever this illness took from his father, at least it also allowed the man to escape Hilda Mellark's acid tongue._

"_Dad, it's me, Peeta."_

"_Peeta, you say? It's a pleasure to meet you, Peeta. Bran Mellark. Have I seen you in the bakery before?"_

"_Dad, I'm going back to California tomorrow. I want to be here with you, but classes start again next week. Will is staying, though, and he and Cora will take good care of you. And I'll write you every week."_

"_California? You must be an adventurous lad. Let me give you something for the journey—on the house, I insist. The crescent cookies should be just out of the oven. Tell my boy to wrap some up for you—why not make it a dozen? You won't find cookies that good in California."_

_Peeta could taste salty tears beginning pool along his upper lip. Even when the man's memory failed him, his kindness and generosity remained. He would be himself to the end._

"_Thank you. Dad, thank you for everything."_

Will assured him there were still good days. Days when their father could focus for long hours going over ledgers with Will and still have the humor to tease Cora at dinner about that taking care of an old man apparently wasn't leaving her enough time for the more important task of making grandbabies. Days when he fretted over Cal and encouraged Hilda to slow down and take her mind off business for a little while. Peeta hoped that on those days his father might pick up his letters, that he might read them and be assured that his youngest son still thought of him as the best man he could ever know.

So each morning while he worked alongside Mr. Simpson, kneading dough and transferring loaves from the ovens to the racks, Peeta treasured the opportunity to listen to the old man's recollections of moments shared with his own sons. Mr. Simpson chuckled as related times that the twins had used salt in a recipe instead of sugar, or had dozed off on duty and been betrayed by the smoke billowing from the ovens, or had tried to revitalize the menu with inventions like handpies filled with chewing tobacco.

Peeta was happy boarding with the baker. Even though his head sported a lump from all the mornings he rose from bed with no mind to the attic's low ceiling. Even though it would take time to grow accustomed to Mrs. Simpson's fastidious housekeeping after two years in the dorms. It was a home. Much more of a home than the Pittsburgh house had been.

Peeta sighed and glanced quizzically at his sheets. He balled up the previous day's underclothes and dabbed at the wet spot to little effect. He soon gave up. With a decisive huff, he yanked up the covers. He took extra care in smoothing the blanket and tucking it up under the pillows. He hoped his neatly made bed and her strict schedule would give Mrs. Simpson no reason to discover the night's transgression.

Even with evidence of the dream now hidden, it still burned bright in his memory. _"Oh, Peeta... I do know. I've always known." _ His stomach did a quick flip. _Oh, hell. _ He couldn't get hard again now, he needed to go downstairs to help Mr. Simpson move the heavy trays from the racks to the front case. He willed his thoughts to settle on anything besides Katniss Everdeen. Milton, calculus, the rise time for pumpernickel, the names and hometowns of his Encina Hall dormmates...

_Argh, the indignity of being a 20-year-old virgin! To think that in just a few hours I'll be standing at the front of my classroom, guiding impressionable young minds. And in another schoolhouse just miles away, Katniss will be doing the same._

_Get it together, Mellark._

**A/N: That last line is my shoutout to some of the great Peeta characterizations in other stories. "Get it together, Mellark" seems to be a common refrain. Any reviews and comments readers might offer would be greatly appreciated, especially since I'm new to all of this. This prologue focused on Peeta, but future chapters will switch between a focus on Peeta and on Katniss. Lots of other THG characters will be involved as well. I hope to post a chapter a week, but the schedule depends on getting my other writing (damn you, dissertation!) done too. Thanks again for reading, and thanks to other fanfiction authors for giving me the courage to write and post.**_  
_


	2. Carrots

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading and for all the alerts/favorites/reviews so far! I am so honored by your interest in the story and your encouragement on my first fanfic. The reviews have been very helpful in alerting me to things I can work on for future chapters (like nailing down the timeline). I'm looking forward to sending out some PMs tomorrow.**

**One of the biggest challenges with this chapter was trying to stay true to Katniss. Both Katniss and Anne are feisty and impulsive—traits I love in both characters—but where Anne is expressive, Katniss is quiet and often sullen. This chapter is closer to THG than Green Gables, but I hope that it provides more background on young Katniss/Peeta to set up the rest of the story. Thanks again, dear readers!**

**Disclaimer: _The Hunger Games_ belongs to Suzanne Collins. _Anne of Green Gables_ belongs to L.M. Montgomery.**

**Winter 1909**

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 11 years old. I live in Twelfth Creek, Pennsylvania, where we mine coal. My father is a miner, like all our neighbors in the Seam. He's been gone 56 days now. They sent him all the way across the state to work a chain gang for a crime he didn't commit. My mother hasn't gotten out of bed since she lost the baby 47 days ago. I sold the horse 23 days ago to pay the rent on the house. The remaining money ran out 12 days ago. We have been left to starve. No one would care if we starved._

It was the worst of the hollow days. She could no longer pretend the mint leaves worked. They didn't, hadn't for days. But what made today the worst of all days was that Primrose had stopped complaining. The little girl had stopped crying. Stopped begging Katniss for just a little more, anything more. Stopped clutching her hands to her belly in agony and want when it became clear nothing more was forthcoming. Today, Prim just sat quietly and waited. She didn't wait for Katniss to to dilute her tea with more hot water or to press her own mug into the girl's tiny hands. She no longer had the energy for hunger. She simply waited for the end.

It was the empty look in Prim's eyes that propelled Katniss through the sleet to the apothecary. Her feet flew, carrying her the mile and half into town, to the back porch of the two-storey brick structure where her mother had spent her girlhood.

Her mother hadn't been welcome here in many years. When Flora MacLiag left to marry Jesse Everdeen—_"You're throwing everything away for that coalminer?" Flora's grandmother had practically spit; "Whatever you've done Flora, you'll have to live with it now," her grandfather had said through gritted teeth_—the door shut behind her for good. Katniss heard that her great-grandparents passed away when she was just a baby. As far as she knew, they had never visited, never written, never even acknowledged the Everdeens. Katniss heard that the shop was passed to a distant cousin of her mother's. That was the talk, at least. Neither of her parents had ever spoken to her about the apothecary.

She paced a few quick steps before reaching for the brass knocker. _Thock, thock, thock._ It was a good, solid sound. Through gauzy curtains, the glow of lamplight waxed in the hallway. She paced and waited. She drew her arms tight around her bony chest and tried to steel her nerves. Still, there was no answer. _Thock, thock, thunk. _In haste, her middle finger slipped between the brass handle and plate, but her hands were too numb to protest. The circle of lamplight still hovered just a few feet away. Silence.

Katniss pounded her fists against the door, beat them until they were red and raw and prickling. "Please," she cred, "Please, we're your kin. I'll work for you, I'm strong. I'll do anything you need, anything! My little sister, she's just eight. _Please_... please open the door..." When she realized her pleas had no effect, Katniss swallowed them back into her throat. She watched the lamplight shrink to a point as the person who held her last hope retreated back down the hallway and up the stairs.

It had been the same each time. She didn't know why she had allowed the possibility that today might be any different.

She stepped off the porch and back into the rain. It hardly mattered though. Her skirt was already soaked through, and water had seeped up through the thin soles of her boots. The pieces of hair that had come loose from her braid when she ran into town were slicked against her face, the ends dripping onto her cheeks so that they mingled with her tears.

One foot stumbled in front of the other. The lane widened at the back entrance to a clapboard house painted in the muddled tan color and efficient style that marked it as government property. Katniss noted the way the thin blades of grass had been broken and pressed into the mud, tracing out a series of successive circles night after night, as if by ritual. Women and girls gathered here at dusk. They were the truly desperate ones. The ones like her neighbor Leevy. Leevy had just three years and a few inches on Katniss. Leevy had lost her father in the accident that started it all. Katniss had watched the older girl shrink until she was like a little bird, until her grey eyes seemed too ridiculously large to set in her skull. It was a lot like how Primrose looked now. Katniss shuddered at the thought.

Leevy had told Katniss about _him_. It was just a whisper, the words barely audible, muffled behind a bony hand. _"It's true... what they say. He'll pay you. More the first time, less after that. But you have to go as soon as night falls. There are lots of other girls." _

Katniss had never wanted this knowledge. Wished that Leevy hadn't had it to share with her. And she had prayed, literally prayed, that she would never have to use it. She remembered seeing Cray in the Hob when she went along with her father. _"He's Ripper's best customer,"_ her father said with a wink when they were out of earshot. Cray didn't even have the shame to take off his badge while purchasing his black-market spirits. Katniss didn't like the way the old man stood too close when he talked to the market girls, how he made a habit of dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief when he leaned in to rub their backs or rest a hand on their waists.

She hated Cray, hated him with every fiber of her being, for locking up her father and getting him sent away. That hatred was then multiplied a thousand times by Leevy's confession. What could the sheriff possibly want with a starving 14-year-old kid who's just lost her father? She didn't ever want to know. But Katniss would sooner die than return home empty-handed. There was maybe another hour until dark.

Katniss looked back bitterly on her relief when the food stopped coming. In the first few weeks after her father's arrest, there had been a steady parade of boiled potatoes and cornbread and little packets of salt beef and whatever else the miners of the Seam could muster to support Jesse Everdeen's family. _"Jesse would never'a hurt nobody." "Ain't right what they done to Jesse." "The good Lord knows they got the wrong man, and when the judge knows it too, they'll send him home to you." _

Despite the words of comfort, the food didn't sit right with Katniss. They brought it because they knew it was owed. Flora had healed their children or Jesse had allowed them the better end of a trade. They recognized their debt to Jesse when he took the blame for the incident at the mine office. No one—least of all even-tempered, sweet-voiced Jesse Everdeen—had meant for things to get so out of control. That day had been about repaying a debt, too, a debt owed to them by the company that had worked the miners harder and harder each year, overlooking conditions that put five men—two of them Jesse's regular crewmates working an extra shift—to their graves when the old east tunnel finally collapsed.

So, for a little while, Katniss would simply nod her understanding when the guilty-eyed miners' wives darkened the door, arms already forward to thrust a dish into her hands. But having grown up in the Seam, Katniss was always wary of how quickly the balance could tip from owed to owing. And once it tipped, there was nothing they could give for which the price wouldn't be too dear. Those kinds of strings could crush you later.

There were families suffering greater losses. Leevy's and the others. The food should go to them. When Flora lost the baby, lost her will to keep moving forward, lost her grip on anything but her grief, her neighbors in the Seam took it as confirmation that—_"it's jus' like I been tellin' you"_—no merchant's daughter had the grit to make it in the Seam. The visits stopped. Katniss was almost relieved. But that small freedom didn't keep their bellies full.

Before she would ever break down and go to Cray's, she would talk to Miss Portia. She had lied to her beloved teacher at least three times in the last month. _"Yes, Miss Portia, it's like I said, my mother's kin are taking care of us. Thank you, ma'am, we got everything we need."_ Her words didn't alleviate the concern etched on the woman's face.

If Miss Portia seemed willing to believe her, despite her shrinking frame, perhaps it was only because the alternative was almost unthinkable: the Community Home. She knew kids from the Seam who had gone into the Home, because their parents had died or—more often—given them up. It was like a light went out inside them, like they had just been snuffed out. They curled inward until nothing remained but the shell of a boy or girl. The image of Prim in the rough fabric of the Home uniform, dark circles under her eyes from bunking in a room of 20 other girls, motivated Katniss to get both of them to the schoolhouse each day. She just had to keep up appearances a little longer, until her father got back and her mother got out of bed and everything went back to normal. But she didn't know when that would be, and Prim was surely better off in the Home than in the ground. Tomorrow. She would tell Miss Portia at school tomorrow if she had to.

She caught the quick movement of a rat scurrying out of a waste pile at the back of one of the shops. It used to be just coal ash that people would pile behind their homes for the dustman to haul off and dump in the little pond beside the Hob. But the do-gooder town women's group had started a new initiative a couple years ago to clean the streets of food waste that was regularly tossed out in the lanes and alleys and little empty patches of land. Now food waste too was piled for regular collection and carted off to the newly established "piggery" just outside Twelfth Creek. It was supposed to get rid of the rats and prevent disease. Everyone in the Seam knew that those ladies didn't just want to rid the town of unsightly garbage. Their little project had the added benefit of getting rid of the urchins they used to have to see picking through the garbage. The broken and emaciated children the town treated as if they were no better than the rats. Common wisdom in the Seam said the piggery was probably another idea one of the ladies got on a shopping visit to the big city or from a housekeeping magazine.

Tomorrow morning must be waste collection, Katniss thought. But surely others—those creatures, two-legged and four-legged, cursed with more knowledge of hunger than she—had made the route before her. It was unlikely there would be anything salvageable left by this time, but still she went down the line. The grocer and butcher were the prizes of course, and neither yielded a single scrap. There were just piles of coal dust, wet with the rain and bleeding out in ink-black puddles. The ferrier. The barber. The cobbler. Coal dust and more coal dust.

Katniss circled back. Only the bakery, across the way from old Cray's, remained. Prim had always loved the bakery.

On their walks home from school the little girl used to drag her sister by the hand to the bakery's big front window to peer in at the brightly colored confections on display. _Once the baker's wife had caught them with their foreheads pressed against the glass and had chased them off with her broom. Katniss's throat caught when she remembered the way Prim's face had collapsed at the woman's outburst, the frightened tears that poured down her face and still threatened to resurface as the girls lay in their bed that night. Katniss had tried to comfort the little body shaking next to her. _ "Shh... you're safe, Primrose. She can't hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you." _ The next Sunday, when their father came home from his regular round of trades in town, along with the usual goods he pulled from his knapsack a little wax paper packet and handed it to the girls. The sisters took turns unfolding one corner, then another, until they revealed two perfectly formed crescent cookies generously dusted with powdered sugar. Prim let out a happy squeal, but Katniss hesitated, looking up to her father with confusion. She knew they could never afford bakery sweets. Her mother, too, looked unsure. _"Jesse Everdeen! Just how many squirrels did you give that man today?" _ Her father turned and spoke quietly, _"I don't know why, Flora, he just insisted. Said to tell them they were good girls but wouldn't say any more than that. Got real quiet. You know how he can be..."_ Flora looked like she had more to say on the matter, but Jesse placed a reassuring hand on her arm. His smile returned, and he winked at his two girls, each with their two braids. _"Don't eat them all at once and spoil your supper. I got a little lamb from the butcher, and we might just be able to talk your mama into making her famous stew."_ Flora crossed her arms and leaned back on her heels. _"Lamb stew, hm? That might take some convincing... maybe even a song..."_ Flora was suppressing a smile. Katniss's eyes lit up, and she leaned forward to whisper in her father's ear. He mussed her hair a bit and pulled her up into his lap, encircling her in his arms. Together, in clear and lilting voices they began the lullaby that Flora and Jesse used to sing when the girls were babies. _"Deep in the meadow..."_ Katniss thought of the way her mother's eyes had sparkled that day, of the silken feeling of the powdered sugar melting on her tongue, of how warm and safe their little house had felt as the family sat together around the kitchen table._ How very far away those times seemed now.

The bakery was one of the holdouts on the piggery plan. They still kept their own pig in a little fenced wallow at the back of the shop. According to town gossip, the baker's wife was a notorious pennypincher and had refused the monthly subscription fee. Katniss dreaded chancing another encounter with the woman, but hadn't she already swallowed any shred of pride she might have? And what would happen to Prim if she failed today? She envisioned the girl with the two blonde braids in the Community Home uniform, bent at a long table lined with other children being taught to iron shirts and polish silverware and other tasks that would prepare them for a future of servitude.

Katniss's left boot almost skidded out from under her as she began shaky steps through the mud toward the baker's pigpen. She stifled the urge to cry out in surprise. The last thing she needed now was to startle the pig and have it make a fuss that would draw attention from the bakery or from the sheriff across the way. Unlike the waste piles, the pigpen was private property, and if she was caught, she could be punished as a thief.

A few potato peelings peeked out from the edge of a damp pile of straw on one side of the pigpen. If there were potato peelings, maybe there would be other scraps too. The discarded end of an onion or the tops of carrots or a nub of parsnip. If she could just climb up onto the second rail of the fence, if it would hold her, she might be able to lean into the pen from the outside rather than risk climbing in. Katniss hitched up her sodden skirts. She felt with her right boot for the rail. She was a good climber, had climbed almost all the trees in the Seam. But Katniss had lost a lot of strength in recent months, and she was unsteady today. She got up onto the rail and leaned down into the pen. Her fingertips danced agonizingly close to the peelings. She could just brush her fingers against the straw but not close enough to grab hold of anything. She locked her elbow and willed her foot up onto the next rail. Her boot slipped once, twice, then caught hold. She shifted the weight of her bony frame onto the upper rail, but it wouldn't hold. _Snap! _The wood cracked, and Katniss was left gripping the top of the fence with all her might, feet dangling and kicking to make contact with the lower rail.

The back door to the bakery swung open, squealing on its hinges, and a small woman with blonde hair and cold blue eyes came flying out. "Another filthy Seam brat," the woman muttered through clenched teeth. "Get off my property before I call Sheriff Cray over and have you arrested for trespassing!"

Katniss scrambled down from the fence and gathered herself to run. "Wait!" The woman paused and her eyes narrowed. "You're the Everdeen girl, aren't you?" She clucked her tongue. "Looks like criminality runs in the family."

The words cut to the bone. Katniss bit the inside of her lip hard. This—this _witch_ had already made Prim cry. She wouldn't win Katniss's tears too. The girl inhaled a deep, ragged breath and thrust her chin a bit higher.

The baker's wife continued. "Maybe if your kind didn't have so _many_..." She chuckled. "Go home and ask your mother if she considered for a _moment_ how she would provide for you and that sister before she brought you into this world. And to _think_ she was going to have another!"

Katniss was stunned. She had never heard anyone speak ill of her mother before. What did the baker's wife know of their family? And how could the woman wear that smile on her face when spewing such cruelties? She was enjoying this, Katniss realized. She enjoyed hurting people.

"What do you think I see, every night, right here outside my home? Girls like you—_oh, yes_, you'll be over there, I'd put money on it—girls who trade their bodies for a few coins. Then they parade around with their swollen bellies and nine months later with sickly little babies that they can't feed, can't take care of, who'll be out on the street themselves in 15 years. Did your mother really expect any different for you, with that coal miner for your father? And her, filling your head with airs, keeping you in that school... as if sitting behind a desk for a few more years will change anything! You're just like all the others."

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and turned back toward the bakery. "I won't call the sheriff this time. I have a feeling you'll be seeing him soon enough." She looked back, almost casually, but the hard look in her eyes betrayed pure hatred. "Besides, I think the real criminal here is your precious mother."

When the baker's wife stormed back into the shop, Katniss noticed for the first time another pair of blue eyes peering out from behind the doorframe. A boy. Not just any boy. The baker's youngest son. _That __boy. _ Had he witnessed the entire altercation? Katniss's cheeks burned with shame.

But what did it matter if he heard? What had the baker's wife said that wasn't true? Wasn't her father a convicted criminal—in the eyes of the law, an arsonist, an attempted murderer? And hadn't her mother essentially abandoned her to the street when her father was gone, when the baby was lost? Prim would go to the Home, and their mother would continue to transform into a ghost, and their father, if he ever came back, wouldn't get another day's work at the mine. What would happen to Katniss, if she didn't starve too? She was almost too old for the Home. She would have to find work. All those little foil medals she had won at school, all the the times she had taken top honors on an exam, all the praise from Miss Portia and the promises her parents made that she would stay on through high school, none of it would matter. She couldn't even go the mine to work the line with the other Seam girls, carrying bucketloads of coal for a few pennies a day. She'd tried that, before she got desperate enough to sell the horse, and the foreman had laughed in her face as if it was some big joke that he would ever consider hiring Jesse Everdeen's daughter. If she was lucky, she might find someone to take her on as a domestic. If she was lucky, she would avoid Cray's. The words echoed in her head. _"You'll be over __there, I'd put money on it."_

In that moment, Katniss saw herself, like the Home kids, already snuffed out. She stumbled over to a scraggly apple tree and collapsed into the wet ground there, burying her head in her knees. It would be better if she were dead. If she could just die here, she wouldn't have to go home to face Prim, wouldn't have to watch her worst fears realized. She breathed into the wet wool of her father's hunting jacket and caught a bit of his smell—shaving soap and wood smoke. _I'm sorry, Dad_, she thought, _I'm so sorry that I couldn't take care of them._

There was a commotion in the bakery, and Katniss instinctively raised her head to it. She couldn't place the initial sound, but it was followed by shouting. The woman's words became easier to make out as the door opened again. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!"

The boy walked out. Something had happened to his cheek, Katniss noticed. She had seen him with little bruises before, had just assumed they were the kind of bruises boys get from roughhousing with other boys in the schoolyard. But it would not be a little bruise this time. The boy marched over to the pigpen. He carried two burnt loaves of bread under his arm. He tore off pieces from the blackened ends and tossed them to the appreciative swine. But then...

But then.

But then.

Two loaves of bread landed just feet away from the apple tree. With the burnt parts gone, they were perfect and beautiful and so close that she could smell yeast and warm raisins and spices. Steam rose off of them, swirling up into the damp winter air.

Katniss looked down at the bread, then up at the boy. Her eyes locked on his for what seemed an eternity but must have only been an instant. Blue eyes, like his mother's. But where hers were cruel, his were kind, or so it seemed to Katniss. This _was_ kindness, wasn't it, him throwing her the bread? Maybe it hadn't been meant for her at all, maybe it was a mistake. Or maybe he would expect her to pay him somehow, to owe him.

Her brows knitted together in confusion, and she opened her mouth to ask—to ask what? He shook his head—a quick, neat little movement—and glanced back toward the door.

Katniss fumbled for the bread, gathering it up and tucking it into the lining of her father's jacket. The heat of it radiated through her chest. When she had secured her arms around the precious cargo, she looked once more to where the boy still stood, motionless, on the back porch of the bakery. She bit her lower lip and searched her mind for how she could ever thank him.

"_Run,"_ the boy mouthed to her. _"Run."_

**XOXO**

"Prim, go wash your hands and then get Mama to the table."

The little girl looked up but didn't move or respond. Katniss shook her shoulder gently. "Prim, get ready for supper."

It was good, hearty dark bread, studded with dried fruit and nuts. Katniss set one of the loaves aside for the next day. She tore their portions into tiny pieces so that they would have to chew more and wouldn't get sick from the sudden onslaught of food.

When Flora came out to the kitchen, it was the first time the girls had seen their mother outside her bedroom in weeks. Her face was ashen, her eyes sunk too deep into her face. But something seemed to spark in her when she saw the bread. She put the kettle on and set out three little mugs for tea. They ate in silence. Chewed a little bit of bread. Sipped an impossibly tiny sip of tea. Tried to stretch the meal as long as they could. With their quiet and concentration, eating seemed like a hallowed act. Still, the bread was gone too quickly. Katniss knew that if they started on the other loaf, though, their stomachs would ache all night.

When they had finished, Flora stood to go back to the bedroom. She kissed Prim on the forehead and hugged the little girl to her chest. Katniss looked away. She couldn't help thinking about what the baker's wife had said. She was ashamed at the way it had unlocked something she had pushed deep inside her until this moment. Something ugly. Something that made her want to scream at her mother, to shake her mother, to ask her mother how she could just lie in bed while her daughters starved.

Flora brushed a stray piece of hair from Katniss's forehead and tucked it behind her ear. The woman opened her mouth as if to say something, but her lips just trembled, and she pressed them back together in a tight line. Katniss gritted her teeth. She refused to meet her mother's eyes and only looked up again when she heard the sigh of the bedsprings.

Prim climbed up onto Katniss's lap. "I really liked the bread," the girl whispered. "But maybe next time you could get cake." The corners of her little mouth curled up in a sly smile.

Katniss couldn't stay mad, not after that. "Cake, little duck? Crescent cookies not good enough for you anymore?" She smiled and tugged one of her sister's braids.

"Maybe we'll get cake when Daddy comes home," Prim said hopefully.

The sisters folded down the quilt and climbed into the little bed they shared.

Katniss was grateful that neither her mother nor her sister questioned her about the bread. She was different from them in this way. When something good came to her mother or Prim, they accepted it with both hands. When something good came to Katniss, she had to turn it over and over, looking for the strings. She didn't know how she could have explained the bread to them. She didn't yet know how to understand it herself.

Careful not to disturb Prim, Katniss rolled onto her side and tucked her hands up under her head. She ran her tongue across the inside of her lip, tasting the slight tang of iron where the flesh was still raw from biting back her words. She stared out into the darkness. She sighed, pushing all the breath out of her chest, as if by this act she could shake the day's events, start over somehow with her inhalation. She shifted onto her back again, the covers twisting up around her ankles. She tried to extricate her tangled limbs without kicking the little body next to her, its soft rise and fall signaling the peaceful sleep that eluded Katniss.

Katniss lay with her eyes trained up on the ceiling. But all she could see was the boy with the bread. The dusting of flour in his ashy blond hair. His apron, criss-crossed with dark lines where he must have leaned against the ovens. The way he shrank from his mother when she stomped past him in the door. The red welt on his cheek. How wide and frightened those blue eyes looked as he willed her to run.

_Why had he done it?_

Katniss's fingers tightened around the top of the quilt, and she pulled it into a little ball under her chin, forearms tight against her chest.

She tried to list all the things she knew about Peeta Mellark.

He was medium height. Had just a few inches on Katniss herself. Not yet tall and broad-shouldered like the older boys at school. He looked coltish—more so because of the waves that fell over his forehead and curled against his eyelashes. His hair could use trimming, she thought, so he wouldn't have to push it back with his hand so often to get it out of his eyes. Of course, he had the fair coloring that distinguished the merchant families in town from the miners of the Seam.

His parents ran the bakery. He had two older brothers—half-brothers, really, his mother was the blacksmith's widow before she married the baker—both grown and out of school now. She had seen the middle brother through the window of the bakery a few times. She guessed from the events of the day that Peeta must work there too.

The day they got the crescent cookies, Prim had asked her if she thought the baker's sons got to eat desserts every meal. Katniss tried to picture the Mellarks at their supper table, thick slices of chocolate cake on their plates where others might have steak, passing a bowl of vanilla icing to spread on their biscuits and shaking powdered sugar onto their food as others might use salt. She couldn't help but smile a bit at the ridiculous image. What she witnessed between Peeta and his mother, though, made her think maybe he didn't get many treats.

He seemed happy enough when she had seen him at school. Always surrounded by friends. Part of the tight-knit circle of merchant kids that played stick ball together after school and chattered about the latest toys in the Montgomery Ward catalog and laughed at shared jokes.

He was in the grade above hers. She hadn't even spoken to him until this fall. She knew him only because of the after-school enrichment class Miss Portia was offering for the school's "high-achieving students" who were aiming to continue on to high school.

_Katniss was the youngest in the class and the only Seam kid. When Miss Portia had suggested she join, Katniss had shied away from giving a direct answer. She loved school, excelled in almost all her subjects, but she didn't see how her parents could spare her two extra hours in the afternoon. If she wasn't watching Primrose while her mother visited some ailing widow or helped deliver a baby, she went to the woods with her father to hunt and forage. Katniss was especially good at finding clusters of mushrooms camouflaged on the forest floor or climbing high into trees after the little eggs the mayor would pay so dearly for. Katniss had been so certain that her parents couldn't spare her for the extra class that she didn't bother mentioning it to them, despite telling Miss Portia she would. _

_But one evening just before supper, the teacher had knocked at the door. Katniss and Prim were sent outside to feed the pony. Katniss knew Miss Portia could be persistent, and she wondered how long the teacher would stay before she was convinced that the Everdeens' circumstances didn't allow their daughters any "extras." So Katniss had been shocked when, after a short time, she saw the door open, saw her mother and father shaking Miss Portia's hand, waving their farewells and grinning like fools. _"Katniss, darling!"_ Flora had clucked, _"Why ever didn't you tell us?"_ Jesse had gathered her up into his arms, spinning her like a whirligig. _"A champion tree climber and a scholar?"_ he had teased, _"I don't think there could be prouder parents in Twelfth Creek!"

Katniss's heart ached with the memory of her father.

_He was so eager for her to succeed in the class. When she had needed to stay up later than usual to finish her studies, he sat up with her and kept the fire going. When she had needed to purchase special books and supplies, he hunted later into the evening, brought down a few more squirrels or quail to sell in town. Flora had forbidden him from taking on extra shifts at the mine or he would have been down there when the tunnel collapsed. More than anything, Katniss wanted to make her father proud, to make all his efforts worthwhile._

_The first day of the special class, Katniss had tagged behind Miss Portia as the pair walked down the hallway to the Grade 7 classroom where the rest of the enrichment students were able to remain in their desks after regular lessons ended. _This will be my classroom next year_, Katniss thought with pride as they walked through the door. Eight pairs of blue eyes stared up Katniss. She recognized a few of the students from their parents' shops. Some of the glares were curious, others openly hostile._

_Katniss ducked her head and quickly took a seat at the center of the front row._

"If you're here to sweep the coal stove, it's in the back corner,"_ a girl's voice hissed. This was followed by snickers._

Just ignore them_, Katniss told herself, _it's not the first time you've been the butt of their jokes and it won't be the last._ She took extra care arranging her books and pencils on the desk. _

"Good afternoon, students,"_ the teacher greeted._

"Good afternoon, Miss Portia,"_ the students sang back. They had all been in Miss Portia's class the previous year, which is how they were identified for the enrichment class._

"I would like to introduce you to Katniss Everdeen." _ With a bright smile, Miss Portia waved her hand to where Katniss sat just before her. _"Katniss is my star pupil in Grade 6 this year, and I have invited her to join us in our studies. I am certain I can count on all of you to help her feel welcome."

_Thankfully, Katniss was so absorbed in the lessons that it didn't matter that none of the other students spoke to her, let alone greeted her or made her feel welcome. Miss Portia decided they would begin by focusing on arithmetic. It was usually Katniss's strongest subject, but she hadn't yet studied algebra and had to work twice as hard to catch up to her classmates. It was exhilarating, she thought as she began to grasp the subject, the way that the unknown could be discovered through the systematic application of rules and formulas. She fell asleep each night with_ x_'s and _y_'s dancing in her head. By the end of the second week, she noticed, she was consistently among the first students to finish each problem set. The little sound of the pencil hitting the desk had never before brought such satisfaction._

_Katniss wished they could continue with arithmetic the entire year. But Miss Portia made a sudden and decided change of course at the end of September. Maybe she could no longer stomach the whining and frustration from the Leeg twins, neither of whom seemed particularly adept with numbers. Katniss knew from when her father used to harvest misteltoe for Mr. and Mrs. Leeg that the twins' parents ran the florist shop. The twins knew all the gossip in town because it was their job to write out the messages on the little cards that adorned bouquets. _Maybe they're good with poetry?_ Katniss wondered. _Because otherwise, _she thought uncharitably, _I really don't see what they're doing in this class.

_Katniss was not good with poetry. She could commit the stuff to memory and recall it easily enough. It was like remembering the words to a song. But she never knew what she was supposed to say when a teacher asked her what the poet meant or how it was supposed to make the reader feel. She wished there was a formula or an order of operations for such things. The only thing worse than analyzing poetry was writing it. Or—no—reciting it. Public speaking made Katniss's knees tremble._

_So when Miss Portia announced that the class would depart from arithmetic to focus on language and presentation skills, Katniss began wondering how difficult it would be to slip some poison ivy in with the bunches of wild grape her father would be gathering for Leeg Florist on Sunday._

"Let's have fun with this, shall we students?"_ Miss Portia was glowing with enthusiasm, as always. _"For Thursday, I would like each of you to prepare a 10-minute speech on a topic of your choosing—any topic so long as it is of importance to you. What I want you to focus on is not the topic but using your best presentation skills to make an impression."

_What was important to Katniss? Prim. Her mother and father. She honestly hadn't thought much about it beyond that. And she wasn't about to get laughed out of the room giving a presentation about her family. There was also the woods and hunting. But what would she do, instruct the children of the clockmaker and the mine engineer in how to use deer urine to mask one's scent when tracking game? No again. _

_Public speaking was bad enough, but it was worse having to choose her own topic. Usually in classes the students were assigned to speak on some aspect of the coal industry. The previous year's prompt had been "Coal, Fire of Progress". Ironically, it had been the candler's son who took top honors on that one. The teachers never seemed to understand why the kids from the Seam took so little interest in learning about their future career._

_Katniss guessed that most of the other students would speak about something related to their families' trades. But they already heard about mining ad nauseum. In most classes, the entire curriculum was focused on coal. The teachers had grown up in Twelfth Creek, or a neighboring mining town, so they tended to teach how they had been taught. And so it went, miners begat miners, and on and on. Miss Portia was an exception. She had come to Twelfth Creek all the way from Philadelphia. She had graduated from college at someplace called Bryn Mawr. Katniss wondered what it would be like to go to college. In any case, mining was out as a topic._

_If not her father's profession, perhaps her mother's. Flora was a healer. She had grown up in the apothecary and knew everything—or so it seemed to Katniss—about illnesses and healing herbs. Since marrying Jesse and moving to the Seam, she had served as a sort of unofficial doctor for the miners and their families. Mostly that meant that she delivered babies. Katniss would not be giving a speech on how babies are born. She had accompanied her mother once to a delivery and had to leave the room before she fainted. All that blood and sweat and slime and hair... the experience had confirmed Katniss's nascent sense that she never wanted children._

"What's troubling you, Kat?"_ her father had asked her as she sat at the kitchen table, chin propped on her elbows, staring off at the flames through the window of the coal stove. Katniss explained the assignment. _"Something of importance? I'll tell you what I'd speak on if I were you."_ Jesse's eyes lit up. "Katniss_ – your plant! 'You'll never go hungry so long as you can find yourself'._" She smiled at their long-running joke. _"Very funny, Daddy. But I think that might be a bit self-aggrandizing."_ Jesse pushed a steaming mug of tea toward her. _"That's probably wise, Kat. Besides, we wouldn't want your little speech to get those kids so excited that we'd have competition out there at the lake."_ He winked. In early spring, Katniss helped her father gather the roots of the katniss plant to eat at home and trade with others in the Seam. Roasted, it had a nice mild taste, but Flora and Prim always complained that it made them gassy. She would sooner die than present to her classmates on the origins of her own name, but her father had given her an idea. _"Daddy, get the plant book!"_ Together, her parents kept a book of all types of edible and useful plants. They had begun it when they first married, in the years before Katniss was born. New entries were now rare, but it still served as a valuable reference. In winter months when snow covered the ground and the branches were bare, Katniss liked to pull the volume from the shelf just to look at the colorful pictures. Katniss marveled at all the variations in the forms of flowers, all the different shades of green in their leaves and stems. Reading the book sometimes felt like a long-overdue visit with faraway friends. Plants. Plants were important to Katniss. They were important to everyone. They provided food, shelter, medicine, and all manner of useful supplies._

_Wild carrot. _Daucus carota_. After thumbing through the book with her father, that's what Katniss had decided to speak about. It was one of her favorites, and with its showy white umbel there was a chance that her classmates would know it. The young root was edible, and the flavor belied its relation to the cultivated carrot. Her mother used it sometimes when patients had digestive problems. She also knew her mother gathered the seeds for some kind of a women's medicine—though Flora deflected Katniss's inquiries and told her that use wouldn't be appropriate for a school speech. _

_When Thursday had rolled around, Katniss found that she wasn't dreading the speech quite so much as she had thought. A part of her was actually excited to share her knowledge of the natural world with the merchant kids, who probably never strayed far from the center of town. She could hold her own with the clockmaker's son's speech on fitting gears or the Leegs' talk on the messages behind different flowers or whatever the others had prepared._

_But she had guessed wrong. The older students didn't present about the mundane details of their parents' trades. No, indeed. She had underestimated them. As Katniss sat through a rousing address on the moral significance of American actions in Cuba (a surprising topic for Oona Leeg—had she really chosen it herself?) and a detailed account of recent polar exploration teams (the clockmaker's son), Katniss's knees began to knock under her desk. Wild carrot? Her topic seemed so silly and provincial in comparison. Worse, she had to follow the baker's son, who had mesmerized everyone with a beautifully worded speech on the importance of the fine arts for the development of the human condition._

"Peeta, that was truly inspiring! Now... Katniss Everdeen." _ Miss Portia called her to the front of the classroom. _"What will you be speaking on today?"

_Each step came as unwillingly as if she were walking the plank. Didn't Miss Portia realize she was throwing the girl to a pack of blond-haired, blue-eyed sharks?_

"Um,"_ Katniss began. She was staring a hole in the toes of her boots. _"...Carrots. My—my speech is about carrots."

"One of my favorite vegetables!"_ Miss Portia remained chipper, though her brow crinkled in surprise. Or was it concern? Or, worse, disappointment?_

_Katniss wished the floorboards would swallow her up. She wished she had at least worn her hair down so she might hide her face behind it. But she knew she wouldn't be able to return to her desk until she finished the speech, and so she launched in. _"Wild-carrot-is-sometimes-known-as-Queen-Anne's-lace..."_ The string of words tumbled out her mouth. The faster she spoke, the faster she would be finished. _"Head up, Katniss,"_ Miss Portia interrupted, _"and slow down!"

_Snickers. The clockmaker's son didn't even try to hide a triumphant smirk. Oona Leeg whispered something to her sister Dosia, who nodded and giggled in response. Katniss was grateful to the mine engineer's son, who wasn't paying any attention to her, until she noticed that he seemed to be busying himself rolling spitballs._

_Katniss realized that her mind had gone blank. She had practiced the speech over and over with her father, but she realized now that she was completely lost. The pause grew longer and more uncomfortable. She glanced around the room hoping to seize on something, anything, that might cue her as to what to say next. Most of the other students, realizing Katniss's failure was now assured, appeared bored. They sat back with arms crossed or doodled in their notebooks. _

_Katniss locked on a pair of eyes. Warm and wide and filled with concern. The baker's son. Unlike the others, he leaned forward at his desk, focusing his attention on her. In her mind, at least, he seemed to be willing her on. With this anchor, Katniss felt her breathing slow a bit, felt the words come back to her. _"Wild carrot can easily be mistaken for poison hemlock, a potentially fatal mistake..."

_She made it through the speech. After the initial awkwardness, there was no more laughter or teasing. It wasn't her strongest performance, and it wouldn't win her any respect from her classmates, but she could put it behind her at the end of the day. They would be moving on to Latin grammar the next day._

_But the following day, Friday, she had arrived to the Grade 7 classroom to find a little bouquet of flowers on the seat of her desk. The creamy white umbels were unmistakable. Queen Anne's lace, probably the last of the summer. Apparently, her classmates wouldn't let her forget the embarrassing speech. She was certain it was the handiwork of the Leeg twins. Katniss felt eight pairs of eyes following her as she lifted the bouquet and walked with deliberate steps to the back of the room where she promptly deposited it in the coal stove. She hoped that would show them how little she cared about their stupid idea of a joke._

"Open your workbooks to page 151,"_ Miss Portia instructed, _"and conjugate the verbs in sentences one through 25."_ Katniss was relieved to be back on solid ground. There were rules for language, rules in which Katniss took great comfort. She worked intently, quickly covering the first 15 sentences before stumbling a bit with the subjunctive._

"Hey,"_ she heard a boy whisper from behind her. Was it directed at her? She ignored it. But the boy was persistent. _"Hey, Carrots."_ Katniss felt the back of her neck flush. She turned and was surprised to see the baker's son grinning at her. She would have expected it from some of the others, but for some reason had thought him above petty teasing. He had seemed different, somehow, the way he had looked at her when she struggled with her speech. Now she felt betrayed. Katniss hardened her eyes and gave him the fiercest scowl she could muster. She turned back to her workbook. _"Carrots!"_ Katniss seethed. The boy was lucky they no longer used slates like the lower grade students, or she might have been tempted to crack one over his curly blond head. Just as she was about to appeal to Miss Portia, she felt a tug on her left braid. She sprang from her desk and stood over him, hands on her hips in a defensive pose. Before she could think, the words of rage flew from her tongue. _"How DARE you?"

_Miss Portia rose, stunned. _"Katniss Everdeen! You are being disruptive. Must I ask you to leave the class?"_ Some of the girls giggled and the boys made a low "oooo" sound, indicating that Katniss was in trouble. _"No, ma'am,"_ Katniss aswered quickly, _"I'm sorry."

_Peeta Mellark's hand shot up. _"It was my fault, Miss Portia. I was trying to get Katniss's attention to ask her for help with one of the sentences."

"Thank you for taking responsibility, Peeta. But you need to do your own work,"_ Miss Portia chided, _"and leave Katniss free to focus on hers."

"Yes, ma'am,"_ Peeta answered compliantly. His admission seemed to diffuse the situation, and for that Katniss was grateful. But Katniss's anger did not subside. Instead it was stoked by her confusion at the boy's lie. Because when she had stood over his desk, she had seen his workbook. He had already completed every sentence._

_When class was dismissed, Katniss stayed behind a few minutes to offer another apology to Miss Portia and to assure the teacher that such behavior would not be repeated. Her mind wouldn't be able to rest if the Miss Portia thought Katniss didn't appreciate everything the dear teacher had done for her. None of the other teachers would have seen academic potential in a Seam kid. Katniss's was relieved that Miss Portia seemed quick to forgive her. Her heart felt so much lighter now that the week was over—what with the dreaded speech and the bouquet and then getting in trouble—that Katniss skipped out the door and into the warmth of the Indian summer evening. Her father would be getting home soon. Sometimes on Friday nights he would get out his banjo and they would all sing together after dinner._

"Katniss..."_ The baker's son stood waiting, where the path split between the town and the Seam. He ran his hand through the front of his hair to brush the waves from his eyes. His blue eyes locked on her._

_Katniss felt anger and confusion rise up again._

"Katniss, I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." _ His face was solemn, and his words sounded genuine. But then Katniss had just watched him lie to Miss Portia with such ease. Who knew what was real with this boy?_

_Katniss scowled. _"Save it for someone who'll believe you."_ The corners of his mouth sank, and his chest seemed to deflate. Katniss swelled with the small victory. She held her chin high and turned down the path toward the Seam._

"Katniss, please, listen to me..." _She could hear him calling to her and quickened her pace. His voice faded. She made a mental note: never trust town kids. No matter how they looked at you. No matter how nice they pretended to be._

_Why had he done it?_

Katniss had only stayed in the class a month after that. In November there was the accident at the mine, and then the protest and the fire, and then her father's trial. After he was sent away, there were too many things her mother needed help with at home. And when her mother lost the baby, the entire world fell on Katniss's shoulders. She saw the other students from the class on occasion as she and Prim walked to school or in the courtyard at lunch, but she hadn't spoken to Peeta Mellark since she brushed him off after class.

_Why had he done it?_

Katniss had tossed and turned all night, trying to come up with any reason why Peeta Mellark would take a beating to give her that bread. Because something in his eyes made her almost certain that he had burned it on purpose. Was he trying to make it up to her, the embarrassment and the trouble with Miss Portia? Or maybe he was getting back at her, sending a message with the bread that he was a merchant's son and she was just a girl from the Seam, an object of pity and certainly not his equal, at school or anywhere. Peeta didn't seem that cruel, though, and such symbolism would hardly be worth the nasty red welt she had seen on his cheek.

Katniss's thoughts were broken by soft snoring beside her. Maybe he did it for Primrose. Anyone who knew the little girl loved her. She was so gentle and sweet—_so completely unlike me_, Katniss thought—they couldn't help it. Perhaps Peeta gave Katniss the bread to help her sister. Katniss could accept this scenario. But accepting that he gave the bread out of goodwill meant owing. Kindness always had to be repaid. Katniss now owed Peeta Mellark. She hated owing people. It was one thing to owe a neighbor in the Seam, where families were on equal footing and knew what to expect of each other under such obligations, but it was another thing entirely to owe a merchant. The Everdeens had nothing the Mellarks could want or need. _Maybe they wanted Prim._ It was an arresting thought. Katniss had heard of such situations, where children were exchanged to pay a debt. The girls would usually do domestic work, the boys would care for animals or labor in the shops. The Mellarks didn't have any daughters. Katniss imagined Prim scrubbing the pots in the bakery or cleaning the coal dust from the stoves. She imagined Mrs. Mellark barking orders at the fragile girl or, God forbid, raising a hand to strike her.

She had to discharge the debt before expectations were allowed to grow. For now, the transaction was between Katniss and Peeta. She had to repay him for the bread before the obligation grew so heavy as to weigh down both their families.

Carefully and quietly so as not to wake Prim, Katniss slipped out from under the quilt. The first light of morning shone through flimsy curtains. She stood and walked over to the dresser that held her few possessions. She knew just how to lift the top drawer so it didn't squeak when she opened it. What did she have that would possibly be of interest to a 12-year-old boy? She pulled out some ratty old baby clothes of Prim's that she had tried to trade at the Hob. No, certainly not. A hairbrush and some faded ribbons. Katniss pictured Peeta with the unruly front locks of his hair tied off his forehead in a bow. She couldn't help but smile. No, she had no time to waste on silly jokes. She had already traded or sold the few toys or games they had owned. She had allowed Prim to keep one doll, its fabric so ragged that Katniss couldn't imagine anyone else would want it anyway. Katniss dug around in the drawer a bit more and pulled out a book. _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer._ She had kept it as a memento of her father, who had traded a belt full of doves to a traveling peddler for the worn volume. Jesse had read it aloud to Katniss, entertaining her with exaggerated voices for each of the characters. She remembered jumping into her father's lap, frightened, when they got to the cave scene. The book was far from perfect condition, but it would do. She fished in her satchel for an eraser. She rubbed at the inside cover until she had almost erased any trace of the letters, written in her father's shaky scrawl, "KATNISS EVERDEEN." In their place, she wrote his name, "PEETA MELLARK." She hoped he would understand what it meant.

It was early enough that Katniss didn't bother to change out of her nightgown. She wiggled her feet into her boots, still wet from the previous day's misadventure, and pulled on her father's wool hunting coat. It had cleared up overnight, and when Katniss stepped outside, she could see her breath swirl in the morning air. A layer of frost covered the grass in the little pasture beside the house where they used to keep the pony. Before the cold could overtake her, Katniss set off running for town. She switched the book between her hands as she covered the distance to the bakery.

While the rest of the town still slept, the bakery windows were aglow. Smoke rose from the chimneys. Katniss ducked behind the apple tree. She watched the figures at the window. One large figure—clearly the baker. And a smaller silhouette—too small to be either of the older boys. The hair was Peeta's, not his mother. Katniss waited a little while longer to be certain that the woman wasn't there. She sprang up onto the back porch and leaned the book against the door where it could not be missed. She raised her fist. _Knock, knock, knock._

Katniss jumped from the porch and flew down the lane. Past Sheriff Cray's. Past the apothecary. Beyond the grove of maples that marked the unofficial boundary between town and the Seam. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her nostrils flared with hot breath. She didn't look back. She ran for her life. She ran because she was alive.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 11 years old. I live in the Seam. My father will come back. My mother will get better. Until that day comes, I won't let us starve. The bread brought back my sister, and now I've just got to figure out how to keep her._

**A/N: I'll be away from the computer this week, backpacking in the Wallowas (the setting for future chapters of this story!) Please be patient with me if my next update is a little bit late. This chapter turned out to be much longer than expected, so I hope that makes up for any delay.**


	3. Book

**Winter 1909**

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Who in the world?..." Bran Mellark was in dough up to his elbows, having just mixed the dry and wet ingredients for an extra large batch of rye. It wasn't even six in the morning. The baker couldn't imagine who would be knocking on the back door of his shop at such an hour. He wasn't expecting any deliveries today. And if Cal was sneaking home after a long night, he wouldn't bother to knock.

The baker called to his youngest son. "Peeta!"

The boy walked over from where he had been shoveling coal to stoke the big oven. The ovens kept the shop much warmer than the little rooms upstairs where his mother and brother were still asleep. That was something he could be thankful for, if he had to get up before dawn to help his father ready the bakery for the morning rush each day. It had been a clear night—Peeta had spent a long time looking through the window near his bed at the blurry glow of stars—and the temperature had dropped below freezing.

"Son, could you please check the door?" The baker bent his head down toward the shaggy flecks of pale dough coating his brawny forearms, indicating why he wasn't up to the task himself. "I could swear I just heard someone knocking..." he said with disbelief. "Hey, maybe that cheese bun recipe you made up last week has them beating down our door!"

Peeta grinned. He was proud of that recipe, and he knew his father was proud of him for it. Of his three sons—the baker considered Will and Cal his sons as much as Peeta, had loved them just like his own since he married the blacksmith's widow—Peeta seemed most likely to take over the bakery. Will had business smarts and inventiveness that he could apply to succeed at any task, but his talents were bound to lead him elsewhere. Cal's actions betrayed disdain for any type of work, though, as he frequently reminded them, he had been born to take fire to metal not cake batter.

Peeta hadn't heard any knocking, and he thought it more likely that his father was simply imagining it. Peeta's mind flashed on the person he had encountered at the back of the shop the previous day. The girl's tiny frame had been weighed down in layers of wool and cotton soaked through from the rain. She was far too thin, and it frightened him to think of the dead expression in her eyes as she had collapsed into the mud. _I didn't imagine that._ His heart fluttered. He had spent much of the previous night wondering if she might come back.

Peeta tried to hide the way his hands trembled as he wiped the black ash away on his apron and reached out to turn the doorknob. The heavy door squealed on its hinges. The sudden chill of the winter air stole the breath out of his lungs. Peeta looked out upon the first rays of morning light keening over the horizon. The porch and the lane were empty. The windows in all the houses and shops were still dark. The only movement he caught was a stray tabby slinking under a holly bush behind the sheriff's house.

"No one there," Peeta reported back to his father. He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice.

He wasn't sure what he had been hoping for. _What would I have said to her anyway? And how would I have explained it to Dad? _As usual, his father hadn't asked about the welt on Peeta's cheek and the boy had offered up no explanation. _Why would I want her to come back here? _He had been there to help her at a moment when she needed it. It would be best, he knew, if she didn't come back. It would mean she was all right, and wasn't that what he wanted? But there was a stinging little voice in the back of his head that cut through all rational thought. _ You want her to come back,_ it said._ You want to see her again. You want her to need you._

Just as he was about to push the door closed, he noticed something blue just at the bottom of his vision that contrasted against across the whitewashed boards of the porch. _A book?_

Curious, Peeta reached down to pick it up from where it was lay, just inches from the toe of his boot. It didn't look familiar like any book that he had seen around the house before. He noticed that the corners of the clothbound volume were a bit frayed, the gilt lettering on the cover too worn to be readable. On the spine, he could just make out the title, _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer._ Peeta had read the story. He didn't have any books of his own—with two older brothers, nearly everything Peeta had was a hand-me-down, and neither Will nor Cal had been interested in Twain—but he had borrowed a copy from his friend Mitchell and it had helped him pass the time on slow days when he manned the bakery counter. This copy was older, though, and appeared too well-worn to be any book of Mitchell's.

_How did this book end up at the back of the bakery? Had someone been reading there, on their porch—on a freezing cold morning—and forgotten it? His father had heard knocking, though, which would suggest it had been left on purpose... _

Careful not to mar the pages with coal dust, Peeta flipped through the book, scanning for a clue as to its origin. When he let the pages fall as they seemed to want to, they shifted to reveal a rosette of pressed yellow flowers set above smooth, dry leaves that seemed to serve as a sort of makeshift bookmark. _Stranger and stranger_, he thought, keeping the pressed flowers in their place as he thumbed back to the front flap.

"PEETA MELLARK"

When he saw the letters of his own name written there in large graphite-silver strokes, he couldn't control the sudden pounding of his heart against his ribs. _This book was intended for me._ But it wasn't the discovery of his own name that had set his heart racing. It was the trace of what lay behind it. The letters had been erased, but their impression remained, unmistakable.

"KATNISS EVERDEEN"

He took a few quick steps out onto the porch and scanned the lane again with new resolve. Nothing this time, not even the tabby. After a few moments, he gave up. If Katniss Everdeen had been there this morning, she was now gone. With reluctance, he returned to the warmth of the shop and closed the door.

His father looked at the book, eyebrows raised.

Peeta's stomach quavered. The baker wouldn't be angry, he knew, but explaining the book would mean explaining the bread and the bruise. He wasn't ready to get into that, even with his father, and he definitely didn't want his mother to find out that Katniss had been back.

"Mitchell lent me a book," Peeta offered lamely, holding it up. _Technically true_. After all, Mitchell had lent Peeta the very same story. _Last year,_ said a traitorous voice in his head.

"He's an early riser," the baker said approvingly. "Tell Mitchell the next time he wants to come around at quarter to six, he's welcome to come inside and help us out."

Peeta wanted to retort that in all the years they had been friends, he had never known Mitchell to wake more than 10 minutes before he was required to be somewhere. But he didn't say that. Instead, before his father could begin making plans for all he could accomplish with _two_ morning assistants, Peeta blurted "be right back," and sprang for the staircase that led up to the family quarters. He cradled the precious book in his hands.

When he was out of his father's sight, he opened the front cover again. He nearly tripped on the top step as he gawked to admire _his _name written in _her_ bold hand.

He paused at the door to the room he shared with Cal to be certain that his brother was still asleep. Reassured by the snoring that emanated from over by the far wall, Peeta crept over to his own little bed and slipped the book underneath his pillow. His fingers twitched to reach back for it, to bring back the heat they had felt from the heft of it, the significance of it. But Peeta had to get back to work. It was Monday, so he would need to help his father shape rolls and then, if there was still time before school, frost the dozens of cookies that had come out of the oven earlier that morning. He could look at the book as soon as he got home from school. That was why he'd had to be sure Cal didn't see him put it under his pillow, or he knew it wouldn't be there when he got home. He wouldn't be able to reclaim it without undergoing some form of torture that usually involved his head being crushed under one of Cal's sweaty armpits.

Peeta crept back toward the hallway. But he must have misjudged his location in the relative darkness, and he felt himself lurch forward as his toe caught on what he guessed was the footstool. "Ballocks!" He tried to stifle the cuss as he reached out to catch his balance on the dresser. The last thing he needed was for his mother to hear him swearing. He could still conjure the taste of soap in the back of his throat from the last time.

He heard Cal stirring. "Damn you, little brother," the older boy grumbled, pulling his pillow up over his eyes. "Get your clumsy ass out of here!"

Peeta ducked to miss the boot that was halfheartedly tossed at his head. He could smell alcohol fumes wafting off his brother's skin. Cal had never been particularly keen on early-morning wake-ups, and his proclivity for sleeping well into midday was only exacerbated by drinking. Peeta caught sight of the oil lamp sitting upon the dresser and couldn't resist the temptation. He struck a match and snickered as the glow of lamplight filled the small room.

"PEETA!" Cal's threats echoed down the hallway as the younger boy bounded back down the stairs. Peeta made a mental note to add this incident to the letter he was composing to Will. They had partnered many times to exact revenge on Cal.

"I take it your brother is up now, you hooligan," The baker shook his head as his youngest son strode back into the kitchen. Peeta smirked. "Just... be sure you don't wake your mother."

Bran walked over and reached out a large hand to cup his the boy's face, turning it to the side to examine the large purple bruise there. His face turned serious. "I'm going to speak to her about this, son."

The two pairs of blue eyes met, both searching for reassurance. Peeta broke away first, looking down the big counter at the bowls of dough and trays of cookies. He appreciated his father's concern, though he doubted anything would come of it. They had been down this road so many times before.

And this time had been... different, anyway. Never before had Peeta made a conscious decision to defy his mother. But he had finally stood up to her. Because he had to. He couldn't live with himself had he made any other choice in that moment. Seeing little Katniss Everdeen starving and desperate and at risk of slipping away forever, how could anyone turn away without helping her? _I did the right thing. _He had never been more certain of anything in his life. _I did the right thing, and I would do it again._

Peeta looked up at his father again with a sweet smile. The baker squeezed his son's shoulder, patted his back. Without another word, they both slipped back to the Monday morning routine. There was always comfort in work.

Peeta was distracted today, though. His practiced fingers worked nimbly to twist dozens of balls of dough into knots, crescents, cloverleafs. But his mind was entirely preoccupied with everything that had transpired between him and Katniss.

It had almost been too much to bear, seeing her hunched up and crying underneath the apple tree. He knew that the two loaves of bread weren't much, but he hoped that they might tide her over until he could figure out how to do more. His mother watched the inventory like a hawk, so sneaking more bread was out of the question. His father sometimes took the unsold day-old loaves to the Community Home. Maybe the baker could be convinced to set some aside for the Everdeens as well. Not that Peeta wanted Katniss to be stuck with stale bread—it graced the Mellark supper table enough days that Peeta knew how unappetizing it could be—but at least it might keep her alive.

Peeta wondered how Katniss's little sister was getting by. He guessed the girl was seven or eight by now, though she was so tiny that she looked much younger. He remembered seeing the pair come by the bakeries some days. The little girl—Prim, he thought her name was—seemed to like the fancy cakes that would be put out on display around holidays and the summer wedding season. Peeta sensed that Katniss would share the bread with her sister.

He remembered watching the girls at school when they were all younger. Katniss used to wear her hair in two braids then, as her sister still did. She and Prim would wait for their mother everyday after classes ended. The girls would run to meet her, and the three of them would join hands, swinging their arms merrily as they laughed and chattered and set out for home. Peeta supposed he had started watching them because had always wondered what it would be like to have that kind of a mother. She smiled with such warmth as she looked down at her little daughters. She didn't hesitate to reach out to caress their faces or pull them into her bosom for a hug.

He remembered what his father had told him years ago, on the first day he had ever seen Katniss Everdeen and her mother. _"You see that girl?"_ He had pointed to a little girl in a red plaid dress. She was just younger than Peeta, and he guessed that this was her first morning of school. _"I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner."_ Peeta turned his attention to the kind-looking woman who was tightening the plait on one of the girl's dark braids. Like his own mother, the woman had blonde hair and pale eyes, but she exuded a maternal warmth and openness that Peeta had never known. The woman was lovely, but Peeta couldn't understand why any woman, even the most beautiful woman in the world, wouldn't want to marry his father. _"Why would she do that when she could have married you?"_ he had asked earnestly. His father looked wistful. _"Because when he sang, __even the birds stopped to listen." _And of all the moments in his life, Peeta knew he would never forget the first time he had heard Katniss sing, wearing the same red plaid dress and the same braids, at the Christmas program that winter.

So over the years he had kept watching Katniss Everdeen, the girl with the magical voice and the magical life—or so it had seemed to young Peeta. He had met Jesse Everdeen several times when the man came to the shop with squirrels to trade to his father. The man was tall and wiry, with olive skin and grey eyes like Katniss. Mr. Everdeen always seemed so content, singing and whistling as he walked around town, his game bag filled by the forest's bounty. Peeta had been careful to listen and, just as his father said, the birds seemed to stop singing when they heard the man's voice. Peeta used to imagine Katniss tucked inside her cozy home with her kind mother and her sweet little sister and her woodsman father, their hearts all full of love and song.

But he had heard this year, when she had stopped coming to Miss Portia's enrichment class, that her father had been arrested and sent away. He wondered where her mother was now. _And where did she get the book?_ _Why did she leave it?_ He guessed it must be her gift to him, just as he had so freely given the bread to her.

Peeta's chest tightened as he envisioned the letters of their names intertwined forever in the cover of the book.

The vision at once crystallized his most deeply held hopes. Even in all the years he had watched her from afar, all the times in class he had found himself doodling pictures of her in the margins of his notebook, even when he had so desperately wanted her to notice him that he had actually _pulled her hair_—an unfortunate lapse in self-discipline but she just had this... _effect_ on him—he had never allowed himself to consider it before. His knees buckled and his young heart soared as he let the realization sweep over him. He almost laughed aloud as the words flooded his brain.

_I think I'm sweet on Katniss Everdeen._

He had long admired her. Katniss was the smartest girl he knew. Even being a year younger than everyone else, she could whip through the algebra problem sets faster than all their classmates. She had even bested him to win the school spelling bee the year before—and the "e" in "chrysanth_e_mum" had been etched in his memory ever since. _Trust Katniss to get a plant name right._

Katniss was kind, in her own quiet way. He had seen the tenderness with which she cared for her little sister. He knew she shared his reverence for Miss Portia. And of course, there was the book. Peeta was amazed that even in a time of such great need, Katniss would be thinking not just of herself but of others—of _him_.

But Katniss was also tough. She knew the woods. She knew how to hunt. He had seen her sometimes standing behind her father, carrying her own little bow and quiver, when Jesse Everdeen came to trade with Bran Mellark on Sundays.

What he admired most about Katniss was her fierce independence. For years she'd had the habit of spending the lunch recess nestled high up in the branches of the big maple at the edge of the schoolyard. Peeta didn't know if she had friends at school. He had only ever seen her with her little sister. It didn't seem to bother Katniss, though, to be alone, to be different. She didn't seek the approval of others. _Not the way I do._

He thought of the time she had stomped to the coal stove to toss his bouquet into the flames and the haughty tilt of her head when he had tried to apologize to her that afternoon. He saw the fire in her grey eyes as she stood over his desk shouting at him. _I deserved worse punishment for that_, he thought impishly, _I really shouldn't have enjoyed it so much._

Even without words, Katniss could undo all his careful composure. His heart had almost flown apart the previous day behind the bakery when she had glanced up at him and opened her mouth to say—_what_? He would give anything to know what she was going to say in that moment. He would give anything now to know that she would be all right. That he wouldn't lose her.

_Oh, wow...,_ Peeta thought as he rode the swell of his first crush, _I'm a goner._

**XOXO**

"Katniss, could you please stay behind a moment?"

Katniss dutifully remained in her desk at the front of the classroom, hands folded atop her Grade 6 reader. The other students were a blur in her peripheral vision as they gathered up their lunch pails and raced to claim places in the sunny section of the schoolyard on the first clear day of the year. After months of being cooped up inside, Katniss yearned to stretch her frame against the steady boughs of the big maple that had long been her shelter. It was quiet up there, a refuge from the petty dramas and town-Seam divisions of the schoolyard.

Miss Portia pulled a chair over so she sat in front of Katniss's desk. She produced a small yellow apple and a wax-paper pouch from her desk drawer and pushed both toward the girl. "Here, dear."

"Miss Portia, I—" Katniss began weakly.

"Katniss, really, you must eat," the teacher insisted. She could see the girl readying a counterargument, so she tried another tact. "My parents sent me to the best finishing school in Philadelphia, and I would like to think that those cooking lessons were not entirely wasted." She pressed the wrapped package into Katniss's hand.

The girl's resolve was broken when she pulled apart the corners to reveal a fluffy biscuit split and spread with butter, topped with cold sliced beef. Katniss felt her mouth flood with a rush of saliva. It had been weeks since they had had any meat at home. She dove in, perhaps too eagerly, for her stomach was not ready for the richness of the fat and flesh.

"Thank you," she said when she had finished, her eyes lowered in embarrassment at how quickly she had devoured the offering. They had eaten the first loaf of the bakery bread the night before. Katniss had sent Prim to school with two slices of the second loaf for lunch, and they would finish the rest in the evening. Katniss didn't know what they would eat after the bread was gone, though she had promised herself she would think of a way to fill their bellies. _Daddy will be home soon. Then everything will be like before. We just have to make due a little while longer._

Miss Portia smiled conspiratorially. "Not a bad cook for a spinster schoolmarm, am I?"

"Oh, no! I mean, it was wonderful. Thank you, really!" Katniss gushed. "And I don't think you're a spinster at all!" Katniss put her hands up to cover her mouth. The words sounded all wrong. "Forgive me, Miss Portia! Of course you're not a—well, you know, I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry about it, dear, there's nothing to forgive," the teacher gave an easy laugh, feeling a little guilty for worrying serious, sensitive Katniss Everdeen. "My mother would disagree with you, but I'm not too proud to appreciate hearing it."

Katniss had never before considered that her teachers had mothers and fathers. She supposed when she thought about it that they must have been children themselves once. She tried to imagine Mrs. Jackson, the ancient Grade 4 teacher, as girl, but couldn't picture her without her powder-white wig and outsized dentures. She hid her grin by biting into the soft apple.

"I do have something of a more serious nature that I would like to speak with you about, though."

Katniss's throat tightened. Her fingers pressed little bruises into the apple. _Not the Community Home again. Not Prim._

"I've been thinking about your sister, dear, about what might happen to Primrose."

_No!_ Katniss fought the urge to jump from the desk and sprint out of the room. _No! Prim can't go to the Home. Not after yesterday. Not after we got the bread._

Miss Portia saw the way Katniss began to tremble, like a frightened deer. She reached out and gently took the girl's hand, trying to calm her.

"I've been speaking with someone who might be able to help us."

Adrenaline coursed through Katniss's veins. Her legs twitched to run, to leave before the teacher could continue and confirm her fears. _ It was worse than the Home. It must be the Mellarks._

Miss Portia continued, undeterred. "Now, I don't want you to be angry with me, dear. It was just a preliminary conversation. But I do think it could be a good thing, for Primrose."

_Damn Peeta Mellark. Damn the bread. _Rage. Betrayal. Katniss bit down hard on her cheek, reopening the previous day's wound. _They must have already spoken with Miss Portia. It had all been planned. They wanted Primrose. _Hot, angry tears welled up, making everything around her blur.

"Katniss, I know you've said that your mother's family is helping you, and I'm sure everyone your family is doing their best. But I'm frightened by how thin Primrose has gotten. And you too, dear."

_I knew I shouldn't have trusted the baker's son. I knew he must have had some ulterior motive. I knew he was a liar... But I thought I could at least trust Miss Portia. _Katniss was spring-loaded and ready to burst.

"I think I've found someone who can give Primrose everything she needs. Food. Warm clothing. A comfortable home—"

"SHE IS NOT GOING TO THE MELLARKS!"

Miss Portia's jaw hung open, shocked by the sudden outburst. "The Mellarks? Katniss, dear, why ever would you think that?"

Katniss fell back into her seat. "You... you didn't mean the Mellarks?"

"No," the teacher said, now just as confused as her pupil. "Katniss, have the Mellarks said something about taking in Primrose?"

Katniss's body shook with the release of tension. "No... it's just... I, I don't know why I said that."

She felt the teacher's hazel eyes searching her face. "Please promise me, Katniss, that you would tell me if you or your sister are thinking of going to the Mellarks." Miss Portia had seen too many bruises on the Mellark boys. Had spent too many late afternoons wondering if she should intervene. Had seen Peeta Mellark in the schoolyard that very morning with a fresh purple welt under his eye.

She couldn't tell Katniss any of this, but she wondered from the girl's reaction how much she already knew.

"It's not the Mellarks," she repeated.

Katniss braced herself. _The Home then._

"I have a dear friend from Bryn Mawr, Mrs. Fulvia Cardew, who lost a daughter last year."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Katniss said, unsure of where this might lead. _Did they want Prim to work for them then, to take over the girl's chores?_

"Yes, thank you, dear," Miss Portia said, nervously folding up the square of wax paper from the biscuit. "Mrs. Cardew and her husband have been unable to have a baby, and have decided to pursue adoption."

_But Prim is only eight. Surely they don't think she is old enough to care for an infant?_

"They wanted a younger girl at first, of course, but I wrote and told them what a sweet girl your Primrose is, and... I just got the reply from Fulvia. She said they would consider it."

"They want to _adopt_ Prim?" Katniss croaked.

_This is so much worse than the bakery! At least if she were with the Mellarks, she would still be Primrose Everdeen. She would still come home to us._

Miss Portia took her hand again. "It would be better than the Home. The Cardews really are the most lovely people, Katniss. I know, if you met them, that you would see that. Mr. Cardew has a good position in a bank. They have a big house. They could give Primrose everything she needs."

"She needs her family!" Katniss said, incredulous. "My mother is still at home. And my father could be back any day."

"I know, dear. I know this is very difficult," Miss Portia pleaded. "But I don't know how much longer we can wait before someone else takes notice of your family's situation. Neither of us wants to see her in the Home."

"Would I go to the Cardews also?" Katniss's voice shook. The tears now spilled freely down her cheeks.

Miss Portia was crying now too. "I don't think so, dear. But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that we find someone who can care for you."

"I can take care of myself!" The words choked out with a sob. "And I can take care of Prim. You can't send her away! You can't!"

"Katniss, you know I would never send your sister away. Not if there was any other option, save the Home." Miss Portia looked up at the ceiling, struggling to maintain her composure. "And I fear that the Home officials would be right. Your mother is no longer able to care for you."

Desperate, Katniss reached out and gripped at her teacher's hand with all the strength she could muster. "_I_ can take care of us. Just give me more time, and I'll show you I can! My mother may be... in the depths of despair. But I am not." The girl was standing now, fighting with everything she had to keep her family intact.

Miss Portia squeezed back on Katniss's fingers. She reached out with her other hand to wipe tears from the girl's face. "I hope not, dear," she said gently. "To despair is to give up on God. Let's not give up." She saw the determination in the girls' steel-grey eyes and knew she could push no further. All she could do was support Katniss the best she could, keep a careful eye on the sisters, and hope that Jesse Everdeen would return home soon. "Katniss... I won't give up on you, either."

Katniss's skinny arms shot out and closed around her teacher's shoulders. "Thank you, Miss Portia. I promise I won't let you down. I won't let Prim down."

That afternoon, Katniss waited for her sister outside the school at their usual spot underneath the big maple. Little purple buds were just beginning to appear at the ends of the thin new branches. The slight breeze whispered promises of spring and the reawakening of the forest. Katniss knew she had to find a way to get money and food for her family. She wondered if she would still be in school come springtime. Her eyes traced the ivy that crawled up the brick face of the schoolhouse to a small window where she could see Miss Portia leading the enrichment class students in their lessons. _I miss that_, Katniss thought, remembering the time before her father's trial when her most difficult problem was giving a silly speech and putting up with the taunts of her classmates. _I will miss school_, she thought ruefully, already imagining her future as a domestic or a market girl.

Miss Portia was turned, writing something up on the chalkboard. Katniss could see her former classmates, heads bent over their workbooks to copy it down. Except for one. The blond curls hung too far over his forehead, but the blue eyes were unmistakable. Peeta Mellark gazed down at her with a shy smile. Embarrassed, Katniss looked away. She felt badly about how quick she had been to fault his motives. She folded her arms across her chest and focused straight ahead to the main door. _Prim should be here any minute now, and then we can go home. _ Moments later, Prim tumbled out the door in the middle of a group of little blonde girls. She waved quick goodbyes and rushed over to Katniss, dragging her schoolbag behind her.

"Let's go, little duck," the older girl said, more grateful than ever for the warmth of Prim's hand in hers.

As they walked home, Prim chattered happily about the day's lessons, about a birthday party for a girl in her class, about a boy who fell in a mud puddle during the lunch recess. Katniss smiled and laughed at all the right times, but she was distracted. She thought back to the boy in the window, the boy with the bread. She wondered if he had found the book this morning. _Did he understand? Did he see that I was trying to repay him? _She tried to read the expression she had seen in those clear blue eyes as they watched from the classroom window. She remembered his bruise and hoped that he wasn't too badly hurt.

She glanced over at Prim. The girl was still too thin, of course, but her face was flush, and there was a light behind her eyes. The bread had brought her back to life.

_The book will never repay what he's given me..._ Katniss realized. _Hope._

It was then that she noticed it, a flash of green against the brown-red muck of the path. "Prim, wait!" Katniss cried, fearing the girl's next step might crush the delicate new leaves. She squatted down and reached out to brush her fingertips against their lobed edges.

"What is it, Katniss?" Prim asked, bending closer to examine the plant.

"_Taraxacum,_" Katniss's voice was almost a whisper. She looked up at her sister, and a wide smile of relief spread across her face. "The first dandelion of spring," she said, almost in disbelief. "It's hope, Prim." She clutched her sister to her chest. "We're going to be all right, little duck."

As soon as they got home, Katniss pulled the family plant book down from its shelf. She cracked its spine for the first time since her father had left and was greeted with the notes, written in his hand. _"Young dandelion leaves are excellent raw in a salad, though older leaves can become bitter and should be blanched..."_

Katniss grabbed the too-big hunting jacket, still a bit damp from the day before, off the peg by the door. She took Prim with her to the meadow at the edge of the Seam, near the path that Jesse had always used to enter the woods. The meadow was more open to the sun than the area by the path. A fine crop of dandelions had sprouted up in the wake of the snowmelt.

Together the sisters gathered up handfuls of the leaves, pulling up the extra fabric of their skirts to use as makeshift pouches. They would eat a fine dandelion salad that night, with the last of the bakery bread. Before turning for home, Katniss looked out to the woods. The squirrels would be stirring, and the first robins would arrive soon. In the muddy lake bottom, the katniss roots were swelling up with sugars. The tender young wild carrots that grew by the millrace would be harvestable soon after that.

_Hope._

**XOXO**

"And, with that, we've finished our Level I lessons..." Miss Portia's voice barely carried over the shuffle of papers and the squeal of chairs being pushed back from desks. "Don't forget to bring the Level II workbooks tomorrow! _Wir werden den Deutschunterricht starten__!_"

It had cleared up overnight, and the enrichment students jumped from their seats to catch the last hours of light on a rare sunny winter day.

"You're playing, right, Peeta?"

"Huh?" Peeta was caught off guard, preoccupied with shoving workbook and pencils into his brown canvas satchel. He peered up through the too-long tendrils that hung over his forehead to see his best friend Mitchell standing over his desk. Peeta's eyes had been glued to the clock the entire day, the arc of the hour hand too agonizingly slow. His feet were already pointed to the exit and itching to carry him home, where a certain worn blue book was hidden under his pillow.

"Hopscotch." Mitchell rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Stickball, Peet! What else?" Their regular stickball game had been on hiatus since the first snowfall in November. With the recent rains, the field would be muddy, though clear of drifts.

Peeta knew that for Mitchell there was nothing else. They had been in classes together since they were five years old. Mitchell wasn't much of a scholar but because his father was the engineer at the mine, his teachers had always taken the boy's intelligence as a given, despite all evidence—uninspired essays, lackluster test scores, indifference to the material—to the contrary. Mitchell dreamed of playing professional baseball for the Pittsburgh Pirates like his hero, Honus Wagner. Peeta had offered to tutor him on numerous occasions, but Mitchell always told his friend that the only thing he needed to know was how to count balls and strikes—and maybe not even the strikes.

Peeta hesitated. "I don't know, Mitch, I think I'm supposed to help my dad at the bakery today."

He felt a twinge of guilt at how easily the lie slid off his tongue. But Peeta had learned from a young age how to use words to keep himself out of trouble, to keep people from getting hurt. Mitch was a stand-up guy, but not a particularly sensitive one. Peeta couldn't tell him about the book and the bread, because he wouldn't understand what had happened with Katniss. _You don't want him to understand, _a little voice in Peeta's head intruded. _You don't want him to know how much it means to you. How much _she_ means to you._

"I thought you'd worked it out with Cal so that you took the mornings and he had the rest of the day." Mitchell wasn't going to let it go easily. Peeta was a consistent, if not winning, pitcher and could be counted on not to throw into the dirt like some of the other boys. Mitchell didn't play to get walked. If Peeta pitched, Mitchell was guaranteed at least a couple nice drives into the outfield.

"Yeah, well." Peeta wasn't inclined to come up with a story to excuse his older brother, though for once there wasn't actually anything to excuse.

"Let me guess... the slagheap." A knowing grin spread across Mitchell's freckled face. "Who is it this time?"

At just 17, Cal was a notorious Lothario and had already practically exhausted the possibilities in Twelfth Creek. When word reached their mother that Cal had been spotted recently with Seam girls, the woman had gone apoplectic. Peeta had been kicked out of their room while his mother gave Cal a tongue-lashing. _"You know those Seam girls only want one thing, Calvin—a claim on this family's money and position!"_ Peeta had rolled his eyes at that as he waited in the hallway. His mother was so predictable. Peeta had wanted to retort that they were well-suited to one another, then, because Cal only wanted one thing too, as Peeta knew too well from the many times he had been stuck listening to replays of Cal's conquests. But, as always, Hilda Mellark was quick to forgive her middle son. Not so with quiet, earnest, _genius_ Will. Will's visits, which Peeta anticipated for weeks, were clouded by the guilt that Hilda laid on her eldest for being so far away now in Pittsburgh where he had secured a good job as a junior patent examiner. _Not like she noticed him when he was here_, Peeta thought, with some venom. And Hilda certainly didn't forgive Peeta easily. She hadn't wanted to have a child with the baker, had refused to speak to her new husband for weeks after she had felt the quickening. When she was angry with the boy, she spared no opportunity to remind him that he had been an unwanted intrusion. Like a sliver, the words had worked their way into Peeta's flesh little by little over the course of all the years he had borne witness to his parents' marriage. Perhaps if little Peeta had never come into their lives, they would not still be bound to one another despite their unhappiness.

"Cal's working today too," Peeta said, dashing his friend's hopes of getting any new information about the slagheap. Twelve was a funny age. Though their birthdays were just weeks apart, Mitchell had shot up about four inches taller than Peeta in the past year, and his chin had begun to sport coarse red-gold hairs that had to be shaved every couple days. Unlike Peeta, Mitchell seemed to appreciate the details Cal would offer up after his exploits—the more graphic and instructional the better.

"Working? Ha, for once!" Mitchell snorted. He knew how many times his friend had covered for the older boy over the years and how thankless a job it was.

Mitchell resented and admired Cal at the same time. Whereas most of the town boys in Twelfth Creek dutifully apprenticed in the family trade, Cal never hid his disdain for the bakery and spent as little time there as possible. He didn't seem to worry about propriety and status the way others did either. He drank and swore and owned a deck of playing cards with pictures of naked ladies that Peeta and Mitchell had found hidden in a sock drawer. Mitchell had once overheard his own mother say when she was holding court at one of the women's club meetings she hosted in their home—which seemed mostly devoted to gossip, as far as Mitchell could tell—that Bran Mellark had been too easy with the blacksmith's sons after he married their widowed mother. _"Without a stronger hand, is it any wonder that the middle boy now runs wild?"_ The ladies had all nodded in agreement, pausing politely from their teacups. When you are the mine engineer's wife in a town like Twelfth Creek, it entitles you to a lifetime of being nodded at and _yes ma'am_ed.

"Come on, Peeta, you can just skip and tell your dad sorry later," Mitchell cajoled. He knew it was what he would do in his friend's place.

"Yeah, I wish." Peeta ran his hand through the front of his hair. "It's just that there's a lot of extra work now, with the roads clear and more people coming into town." It sounded plausible.

Mitchell's pale eyes darted up to the clock on the front wall. "Suit yourself. I got to go if I'm going to catch the last innings." He hefted his bag up onto his shoulder and strode to the door. He paused just long enough to get in a little jab before leaving his friend behind. "Rain check on all the runs I would've hit off you!"

Peeta just chuckled and shook his head. He had been so eager to get out the door all day, and here he was, the last student remaining in the classroom. He took a few more moments to situate his pencils and the now-complete workbook among the other contents of his school bag.

"Have a good evening, Miss Portia," he called to the teacher, who was still erasing formulas and figures from the chalkboard. They had been studying geometry. Peeta had always appreciated the subject for the opportunity it afforded him to practice his drawing skills. The angles of his polygons were noticeably crisper than his classmates', his cones and cylinders more attentively shaded.

"Peeta—a moment please!" He paused and turned back toward the front of the room. Would he never actually leave?

"Yes, Miss Portia?"

He stifled the urge to laugh at how the chalk dust had coated her chestnut hair and settled on her nose. He supposed this was how he must look at the bakery on the days when he was transferring flour from the big bags into the special bins that Will had jiggered to protect the contents from prying rodents. Peeta was just getting to be tall and strong enough to lift the hundred-pound sacks. He had begun to secretly practice, when no one was watching. It would be a milestone when he could actually carry one the entire distance from the cart into the shop. He couldn't wait to see the look on Cal's face when he did it.

Miss Portia's smile didn't quite reach to her eyes. "Peeta, there's something I must speak with you about. You know I cannot ignore it." Her gaze traveled to the purple bruise, the ache of which had become so familiar to him over the course of the day that he had almost forgotten it.

Miss Portia knew teachers weren't supposed to be swayed by such preferences, but she couldn't deny that Peeta Mellark was her favorite pupil. It wasn't just that he was a good student. She knew enough from her long-ago engagement to a brilliant but hot-headed Haverford grad that intelligence untempered by kindness could be a dangerous trait. But Peeta Mellark was a sweet and gentle boy, always conscientious of others. He had a hopeful spirit that drew people to him.

But she knew that things were not as easy for him as it might appear. Miss Portia had seen enough of his bruises to figure out that the boy wasn't as clumsy as he would have people believe. When things had gotten bad for awhile last winter, she had gone to the bakery and spoken to Peeta's father about them—she would never forget the way the baker's face had collapsed, how the sobs had wracked his bearlike body when he acknowledged the truth of the situation at home—and for a time, the bruises had stopped.

"Sit down, dear."

Peeta did as she asked. A heaviness was seizing his chest that he struggled to hold at bay. He worked to keep his eyes focused on her, to pull up the corners of his mouth into a convincing smile.

She knew he had a whole string of excuses ready to offer up. Anything to spare them both the discomfort of this conversation. But she wouldn't give him the opportunity.

"When did your mother start hitting you again, Peeta?"

His fingers flew instinctively to the welt, the one he had told his friends had resulted from an ill-fated attempt to sneak one of the cupcakes his father had set aside for sale the next morning. He had rested too much of his weight on the high rack, he told them, and then _boom!_ the tray had come down and smacked him in the face. _Did you at least get a cupcake?_ they all wanted to know. _Well, I got to lick some of the icing that came off on my fingers when I tried to catch them on their way to the floor_. Peeta Mellark always had such funny stories, that was one of the things his friends appreciated about him.

Most of Peeta's friends had been hit before too, he knew; it was common enough. But without ever having asked any of them about it, he knew instinctively that his mother was different. She hit harder and more often and with less provocation. And with the daily barrage of little cruelties, her words did even more damage than her fists. That was why Peeta would rather make up these little self-deprecating tales than allow them—himself included—to see the real sadness of his situation.

"It was my fault," he said in a clear voice. She had expected him to say this, of course. "I was being careless. I should have known better than to shirk my duties. I should have been more attentive, but I let some bread burn, and it was ruined. So, you see, it was a reminder. You know, that I'm not a little boy anymore, and I need to take more responsibility for the success of the bakery." He kept talking, hoping to hit on the right words to set Miss Portia at ease, to release them both from this sinking feeling. But she just kept looking down at him with the same even gaze.

"You're always quick to take responsibility, Peeta. And that's an admirable trait in a young man." Her tone was soft but her words deliberate. "But you must know that this was not your fault."

Peeta blinked back at her. He was unsure of what to do, what to say. He could usually deflect uncomfortable conversations just by being faultlessly agreeable. But to agree with his teacher now, to openly acknowledge the way things were with his mother, would be to break with all the other strategies that he had used to protect himself and his family for years. He feared it would open a great crevasse he wasn't yet strong enough to broach.

Miss Portia almost regretted the way the boy seemed to shrink in that moment. He suddenly looked much younger than his 12 years. Something stirred in her chest. She had never been a mother, but she guessed this protectiveness might be what mothers felt toward their children—most mothers, at least. Since she had met Peeta the previous year, there had been an implicit trust between the two of them, a rare kind of understanding. Perhaps it was the way both were so adept at pushing away sadness with cheer. They wouldn't allow it to weigh them down. Wouldn't allow others to see their troubles.

The teacher recalled the advice her sister was always giving her. Perhaps it would work for him. "You don't need to fear your own feelings. You don't need to hide them because you believe it is what is best for others," she said gently.

Peeta was moved by the beauty in these simple words, and he tried to take their meaning to heart.

He was grateful for everything Miss Portia had done for him. He was aware that she had spoken with his father last year. That conversation had finally pushed the man to step in and protect his son after years of looking the other way as little swats escalated into slaps and lashes.

But this incident had been different. It left him feeling different about himself. He had chosen to take that beating in order to give Katniss the bread. That didn't excuse his mother's reaction, he knew. But it somehow helped him to see that he wasn't entirely at her mercy. That someday he would get out. That he would hold onto himself. He wouldn't let his mother's anger turn him into something he was not. So instead of being left to wonder why his mother had done it, whether she loved him, how she could hurt him—as he had all the other times—he actually felt hope, as crazy as that might be.

He didn't know how to explain all that to another person, even someone as understanding as Miss Portia. So he just said, "Yes, ma'am."

She was not placated. "Peeta, I know that this isn't something you want others to know about. And we both know that even if I went to Sheriff Cray about this, he wouldn't be inclined to step in. But from what I see here—" he winced as she reached out to brush her thumb across the fresh bruise "—things are getting worse, not better. I need to know that you will talk to _someone_—if not me, perhaps your father or Will—if this does not stop."

"Things are already better, Miss Portia. I can't tell you how, but I promise it's true." Her forehead wrinkled in doubt, and so Peeta tried to convey the veracity of his words with his eyes. After a few moments, he rose and grabbed his satchel off the floor. "I'll see you tomorrow. And thank you."

He flashed her a winning smile. He made it look so easy.

She smiled back, but she couldn't entirely push away the sadness in it this time.

When the boy was out of sight, Miss Portia let herself slump back against the chalkboard. Between her conversation with Katniss this morning and now this talk with Peeta, she felt that she had aged 10 years in the course of the day. She thought of the emotional weight the two students carried on their narrow shoulders. She recalled her own happy, carefree girlhood in the big house on the Main Line. She never had to deal with the kinds of troubles the miner's daughter and the baker's son were facing. But still she knew they were the lucky ones. They were in school, at least, while kids the same age, their former classmates, toiled in the mines. By the end of each year, half the desks in her Grade 6 classroom were empty. She had come to Twelfth Creek to try to change such things, but she could only do so much. She would have students for one or two years, during which she was with them each day, delighting in their triumphs and helping them learn to navigate defeat. And then they were gone. Sometimes she would run into them in town or get occasional updates if she happened to teach their younger brothers or sisters. More often than not, they stayed with her only as memories, frozen at whatever age she had known them.

The teacher knew she would miss Peeta terribly, and Katniss too, when the time came. She desperately wished that, wherever their futures led them, they would each find someone to help share their burdens.

**A/N: I know the story has been slow to develop, and I appreciate your patience. I expect at least one more chapter of young Katniss/Peeta before we jump forward and westward, when the pace will pick up and we'll meet more THG characters. I'll earn that M back too (when the characters aren't 11/12, of course.) Woohoo, can't wait! Hope you'll stick around.**

**On a more serious note, I've been dismayed by recent events at . I am a big fan of two of the stories that were deleted. I don't like censorship, and I don't like the process (or lack thereof) for deleting stories. I haven't yet decided if I will continue to post here or try to migrate elsewhere. For now, I am cross-posting at rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) wordpress (d.o.t.) com. I'm new to the world of fanfiction, and I welcome any suggestions in regard to alternative sites to post stories.**

**As always, your reviews/alerts/favorites are greatly appreciated! Thank you, thank you, thank you!**


	4. Crumpet

**A/N: Since it has taken me so long to update, and since the unfinished chapter is already 20 pages long, and since I'm hung up on a few things that come later in the chapter, I've decided to break it up into smaller parts for now and consolidate them later. Thanks for your patience!**

**Winter 1909**

He liked the way she wrote her _e_'s, with generously round loops. "P_EE_TA M_E_LLARK". Kneeling on the wooden floor before his narrow bed, Peeta traced the letters in the book again with his fingertips. Her penmanship appeared childish still, uneven, with the _l_'s huddled close together and a too-long tail on the _k_. He had finally discovered something Katniss Everdeen wasn't perfect at, and it only made her more fascinating.

"Peeta!" Cal's voice boomed down the hallway.

Peeta slammed the book shut and scrambled to slide it back under the cotton ticking of his pillowcase.

_Argh! I was sure he would be in the bakery until suppertime! _

Peeta quickly arranged himself so it would appear he had been casually reaching for a pair of boots from under his bed. "What are you doing up here?" he blurted too loudly as his brother came to lean against the doorframe.

The older boy raised his eyebrows and spoke condescendingly. "To begin with, it's my room."

"Yeah, and you're supposed to be working with Dad," Peeta retorted. He shifted his legs so that his frame blocked the pillow and its hidden contraband. "Don't even think about asking me to cover for you again. You still haven't paid me back for taking your shift on Friday."

Cal didn't respond. The awkwardness of Peeta's comportment, the blush on his cheeks, and the uncharacteristic edge to the boy's tone made him suspicious. Cal's eyes narrowed. He stood, hands on his hips, before the invisible line that had divided their territory since Will moved out. "You haven't been snooping around my bed, have you?"

Peeta wanted to laugh aloud. Hadn't he been a nervous wreck the entire day out of the same fear? Of course, Cal had his secrets too. Since Peeta and Mitchell had discovered the deck of dirty playing cards Cal kept in one of the dresser drawers—which had been a giant leap forward in terms of Peeta's nascent education on the female form—Peeta could guess what type of material he might find if he were to look. But it would be mutually assured destruction. Peeta stole a quick glance to confirm that the blue book was safely hidden.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "What do you want, Cal?"

"Mother wants us to fix the fence out back. Said some urchin girl broke it trying to steal the pig," Cal snorted.

_Katniss_.

"Katniss wan't trying to steal the pig, she—"

Peeta caught himself. Maybe she had been trying to steal the pig. It would have been a risky plan to get the pig all the way back to the Seam without being caught, not to mention them living right across from Sheriff Cray, but Peeta knew Katniss was brave. If that had been her plan, he had to admire her for it, even if her efforts had been thwarted.

"Wait..." he said, "Mother wants _us_ to fix the fence, or she wants _you_ to fix it?"

Cal reached out to muss the boy's hair and give his shoulder a light punch. "Come on, little brother. Don't we always have a swell time together?"

Peeta gritted his teeth and reluctantly rose to pull his cotton-duck jacket from the hook by the door. _You answer my question first, Cal_.

One day of sunshine hadn't been enough to dry out the mud in the lane, let alone the wallow. The brothers stood in front of the pig pen with hammers, nails, and lumber in hand. Someone would have to clamber inside the pig pen. Peeta was almost certain Cal expected him to do it—that was how it worked between them—but he wasn't just going to volunteer. Peeta had always been eager to please and for too long Cal, being five years older, had gotten away with pushing all manner of unpleasant tasks on him.

"_The ball went into the brambles, and you're the only one small enough to reach it, Peeta."_

"_We won't get in as much trouble if _Peeta_ tells Mother we broke it, because she'll know _he_ wouldn't do it on purpose."_

"_Peeta should take the early shift, because he's so artistic, and he'd do so much better on all the frosting work."_

_At least I want to hear him try to justify it_, Peeta thought. So for several minutes, the brothers just stood there, staring at the broken rail and occasionally running their hands through their hair in tandem.

"It's evident that the rails won't hold my weight." _Here it comes_. "I bet you're light enough, though." _What an amazing coincidence._

"Or _you_ could just climb through where it's broken," Peeta suggested.

Cal folded his arms across his chest. "Just get in the pen, Peeta."

The pig lumbered over, squealing eagerly as Peeta contorted his frame to squeeze through the space in the rails.

"Sorry, Crumpet, no bread today." He displayed open palms. "See?"

"I can't believe that you named her. She'll be on the supper table one day, you do know that?" Cal chided. "You're as much of a sap as Dad." He passed a hammer through to Peeta, who was lovingly scratching behind the pig's ear.

Peeta shrugged. "Mother won't let me get a dog."

"What would we feed a dog? We're lucky if we get meat anymore."

Peeta grimaced at the iron tang as he held several nails in his mouth, hands working to align the wood to bridge the break in the rail where Katniss's foot had crashed through the previous day. The taste of the nails reminded him of blood and marrow, of the last time they had eaten red meat. Will had come home, and his father had splurged and brought home steaks from the butcher. He remembered hearing his parents fight over the expense after dinner. More often, the Mellarks ate squirrel—or had, when Jesse Everdeen was around. He and Bran always traded on Sundays. A loaf of bread—or six rolls, whichever seemed less likely to sell that day—for two squirrels. Peeta guessed it had been almost three months since there had been any squirrel stew on the Mellark table. He wondered how many other town families were feeling Mr. Everdeen's absence.

His attention threatened to shift to Katniss. _Bang!_ He wouldn't allow it. _Bang!_ Not now, not in front of Cal, who had already called him a sap. _Bang!_ She would have to wait. _BANG!_

"Whoa! Take it easy, little brother, you'll split the wood." Cal reached out to interrupt the swing of the hammer.

"Maybe that's why Mother asked you to do it." Peeta could barely work his tongue around the nails in his mouth. The words came out a mumble, but the resentment in his tone was clear.

Cal inhaled deeply, brushing strands of straw-colored hair off his forehead and tucking it back behind his ears. He turned his head and let his gaze drift down the lane to where the sun was making its slow descent behind the roof of the apothecary.

"Mother feels badly about it, you know... what happened yesterday."

This wasn't something the brothers ever spoke about, and Cal tried to maintain an air of cool nonchalance. He had monitored the progression of the welt from red sheen to deep yellow-blue. The capillary and tissues would heal, but Cal feared for the boy inside. Of the three brothers, Peeta had always had the most gentle temperament. Will could close himself off, retreat into his own world of equations and gadgets. Cal had learned to twist the pain back upon itself, to seek out the razor's edge. But since he was a little boy, Peeta had walked through the world with open eyes, open arms, an open heart. He was too trusting, too quick to care. Of the three brothers, it was clear that Peeta was Bran's son.

Peeta paused and sat back on his heels. His pupils traced the broad grain of the white pine board. "How do you know about yesterday?" His voice sounded softer, younger than he intended.

"It's a pretty legendary shiner, Peet. Even for our family." Cal paused for a moment. "That, and I heard Dad talking to Mother when I came downstairs this morning."

The younger boy was quiet still, so Cal continued. "You know how she is, she just goes berserk sometimes. But you can't let her get to you."

"Easy for you to say. You're her favorite."

Cal stepped forward and kneeled down so the brothers were eye-to-eye. "Well, you're Dad's favorite." He took the board in both hands, to hold it in place so Peeta could position the second nail. "I wish you could have heard what I heard, when he was defending you. He's proud of you, little brother—and he should be. You're a good man, you know that?" He held the boy's shoulder. "You make me look bad, that's for sure."

Peeta felt a surprising warmth grow in his chest, felt his mouth pull into a slow lopsided grin. _Maybe Cal isn't so bad. Maybe I need to forgive him for everything he's done in the past and see him for who he is now._ _After all, it couldn't have been easy, losing his father so young, moving into a new home, with a new father. Having a new baby come along a year later. _He looked up, meeting Cal's eyes.

"Despite your reputation," Peeta drawled the last word teasingly, "I'm glad you're my big brother." He heard his own voice break a bit and go shaky.

Without meaning to, Cal sat up a little taller, puffed his chest out a bit. Since Peeta had started crawling, the boy had been Will's shadow. Peeta wanted Will to read him stories, went to Will when he was frightened, said he wanted to be an inventor for awhile because that's what Will did, grew to be clever and responsible and more like Will each year. Perfect Peeta. Perfect Will. Cal was nothing like Will. For years, it seemed the only thing he and Peeta had in common was the ability to antagonize each other.

Cal smirked. "Don't knock my reputation, little brother. There are things I can teach you that you'd never learn from Will." He gave Peeta a pointed look. "But until you're older, don't go snooping around my bed. Or my dresser."

Sunset came in muted hues of saffron, honey, and cinnamon. Bran stepped out from the shop for a moment to remind his sons that supper would be ready shortly. The boys labored companionably alongside one another, and their conversation settled into an easy back-and-forth. Cal complimented Peeta on his choice of the name "Crumpet." Peeta demonstrated how he had trained the pig to come running when he called her. Cal told Peeta that he thought Will would be back for the Easter holiday. Peeta asked Cal if he ever thought of going to Pittsburgh too. Cal inquired if Peeta was still playing stickball and pledged to be more reliable in taking the afternoon shifts at the bakery. Peeta said he wouldn't mind covering, every once in awhile, like maybe if Cal had a special girl to see...?

"They're all special girls." Cal's eyes twinkled. "Let that be your first lesson." He waggled his pointer finger for emphasis.

Peeta's face contorted, disapproval etched in the lines where his brows pulled together, in the tight pucker of his mouth. Over his brother's shoulder, across the lane, he could see the silhouetted figures of the girls already beginning to gather outside Sheriff Cray's house.

Cal followed his brother's gaze, and he shook his head. "No, Peeta. Not like that. Not like that old lecher." He spit the words out with disgust. His tone softened. "All I meant was that you're a Mellark, and, believe me, Peet, you won't have any trouble meeting all kinds of lovely girls whose company you may enjoy." He put a hand on the shoulder of Peeta's jacket. "Just... don't let yourself fall too hard for the first girl that comes along. Look at Dad."

That Bran Mellark still carried a torch for Flora McLiag—Flora Everdeen, ever since she had broken things off with Bran when the engagement was all but announced—was a well-known fact in the Mellark household, one Hilda Mellark was quick to cite in the late-night arguments the boys had always pretended not to overhear.

"The first one...," Cal continued, "that's how you learn what kinds of things girls like. What to talk about, and how to act around their parents, what kinds of little trinkets they appreciate, and how to know when they want you to touch them."

He tried to deploy a metaphor he thought his wholesome little brother could relate to. "It's like homework, for later. But the best kind of homework you'll ever have."

Peeta could see why girls might be drawn to Cal. He was handsome, without a doubt. Peeta's brothers both had straight hair. Cal wore his long so it hung just past his jaw, which glinted with the trace of golden stubble. Peeta guessed his brother must have inherited the blacksmith's blue-green eyes, because no one else in the family had them. Cal was tall and strong from moving heavy bags of flour in the bakery. _I wonder if I'll look much like him when I get older. _The comparison made Peeta acutely aware of the smoothness of his own face, the relative scrawniness of his chest, the fact that even some of the girls in his class now towered over him. The baker was a big man, though, and assured Peeta on many occasions that he was just a late bloomer.

Cal looked up at the darkening sky, searching his memory. "Emmaline Leeg! That's the first girl I was sweet on."

"Is she one of the florist's daughters?" Peeta thought of the twins, Oona and Dosia, in his class.

"The eldest and the prettiest. I used to go into the florist shop every day to try to see her. You want to know how I cemented my place as Mother's favorite? I had to have a reason to go in there so often, so I was spending all my earnings from the bakery on little nosegays that I would bring home and put on Mother's dresser."

Peeta knew the family rule was that the boys would begin to earn wages for their work at the bakery only after they turned 14. He guessed that was how old Cal must have been, then, when he had his first crush.

"Did you love her?"

"Emmaline? I was _fond_ of her. And she was _fond_ of me. And now she's got a nice steady beau whose family breeds the ponies for the mine, and everyone expects they'll be engaged by summer. See, it worked out well for both of us. Practice." Cal winked.

Peeta was taken aback by his brother's frankness. He had always been taught that a gentleman was supposed to court a young lady—_one young lady_—whom he loved. And if he didn't love her yet—which was often the case since merchant families tended to arrange marriages between partners deemed suitable in terms of social and financial standing—he would grow to love her—_and only her_—when they were wed. Peeta had known, since he was a boy, that his father hadn't _only_ ever loved his wife. Hadn't he told Peeta himself that he had almost married Katniss's mother long ago? And now here was his brother telling him to _practice_, that _all the girls_ are special? It was confusing, to say the least. Peeta didn't want a girl to practice with. He wanted a girl he could simply love, a girl who would love him back without thoughts of someone else coming along. One girl, whom he would court and marry and build a home and a family with.

He was startled from these musings when he felt the head of a hammer nudge him in the ribs. "Ow!"

"But maybe little Peeta already has a girl," Cal ventured, noting the blush creeping up the boy's neck. "What was that name you mentioned earlier—Katherine? Catalina?"

Peeta's face burned. "Let's just finish the fence."

And he swung the hammer with renewed resolve.

**A/N: As you may have guessed, the next part focuses on Katniss. I hope to get it out very soon. **

**Again, I really appreciate all of the reviews, favorites, and alerts. A special thanks to ****iam97**** for correcting my (non-existent) German**_** — danke! **_**Sheesh, let's hope Miss Portia is better with languages than I am.I am also very flattered that SFWHOW was rec'd on everlarkrecs and nightlockrecs. **

**I crosspost at rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) wordpress (d.o.t.) com and rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) tumblr (d.o.t.) com.**


	5. Squirrel

**A/N: Chapter 3, part 2 of 4.**

**Winter 1909**

Venus glowed bright white against the clear cerulean sky. Daylight had not yet dawned over the horizon. Katniss let the fabric of the curtain slip back down from between her fingertips. She felt the chill press in around the glass. It would be another unforgivingly cold morning.

She tugged at her dark woolen tights, pulling a second layer up over the first for extra warmth, hoping each might compensate for the places where she had worn holes in the other. She couldn't tell if her boots fit more snugly because of this added bulk or if her feet had grown since the previous winter.

Katniss had always been small for her age—her father called her Baby Bird, among other nicknames—but she had become gaunt in recent weeks. She knew from growing up in the Seam that malnutrition could stunt children's growth—it was the reason that she always tried to be sure Prim got a little extra of whatever food she was able to scrounge up. She had just figured she would eventually be tall, like her father, maybe because she resembled him in so many other ways.

She pulled her father's old hunting jacket down from a peg by the door, pausing a moment to take in his scent before letting the weight of the garment rest on her shoulders. She slipped one thin arm then the other into the sleeves, rolling up each cuff several times. She forced the large bone buttons through their holes and wrapped a worn leather belt twice around her waist. The game bag would have been too long for her. She had tied the knots in the strap so that it hung at her hip rather than tangle around her knees as it had the first time she carried it.

Katniss heard the slight rustling of blankets as Prim stretched out in the little bed the girls shared.

It was the fourth day that week that Katniss had risen early to go into the woods before school. The first time she hadn't warned Prim of her plan. The little girl had been frightened when she woke up alone. Katniss returned to find her sister sobbing, and nearly dropped the armload of walnuts and chestnuts she had gathered in the rush to comfort her. She breathed reassurances into Prim's hair. _"I will never leave you, Little Duck, never. I will always stay with you."_

Prim didn't like sleeping alone. She needed the warmth and comfort of another heart beating close. So now that Katniss made a habit of rising before dawn, Prim would wake and patter, sleepy-eyed, to their mother's bed.

Katniss felt a pair of tiny arms circle her waist.

"Promise you'll be careful?"

Katniss reached down to smooth a head of unruly blonde waves. "Don't fret over me."

Prim loosened her grip, yawned, and wandered sleepily to the door that separated the bedroom from the rest of the house. On more and more days now, only Prim opened that door. Katniss turned her head, not wanting to look in.

_She's spent all winter hiding behind those walls. Well, I can build walls too._

Katniss resumed her preparations. She wriggled her fingers into a pair of gloves. They were originally knit from the rough brown yarn that could be had at The Hob but were now interlaced with a rainbow of colors from all the winters her mother had darned them with scraps from other, older gloves and sweaters.

Katniss tried not to think of the way her mother used to be, before the accident and the fire and the trial and the baby. She tried not to think of past winters, when her mother had tried to teach her to sew and darn and knit. (Katniss had been hopeless at all three.) Or of how the woman could work magic transforming herbs and roots into tinctures and ointments. (This skill Katniss wanted desperately to learn, so it was humbling when little Prim proved the more apt pupil.)

Instead, Katniss directed her attention to the little tasks before her. The right glove was always so much more difficult to pull on than the left, those cloaked fingers fumbling to comply with her commands. She batted at the wrap of her scarf, pushing it up to cover more of her ears. She snaked a gloved hand around the base of her neck to pull her braid free.

Finally, bundled against the cold, Katniss picked up her bow and quiver from where she had positioned them near the doorframe the night before and stepped out alone into the still-dark morning.

It would be the first morning she tried to hunt.

On Tuesday, she had gone to gather dandelions. She and Prim had already picked all the edible greens out of the meadow near the house. But Katniss knew of another place, an abandoned homestead with a clearing that could be counted on for wild greens. She used to go there with her father. Each spring they would dig cattails and katniss roots from the old farm pond where he had also taught her to swim. In summer, they would return to pick apples from the old orchard, then again in late fall for walnuts and chestnuts.

It was no longer fall. Winter had claimed the mountains and still held them in its grip. There were yet chestnuts, which Katniss gathered up greedily. But, she found when she took them home to roast them, they had turned bitter and inedible in the months since the first frost. Prim loved roasted chestnuts, and Katniss had given her the honor of unpeeling and eating the first one. The twist of the little girl's face as she spit it back into her hand had been a terrible blow to Katniss's pride. Their bellies would also be that much lighter.

Disappointed, Katniss had spent the rest of Tuesday evening peeling the green hulls from a bag full of walnuts and laying them out to dry. She tried to dissuade Prim from helping with this task, holding up ink-black hands to show the way the husks stained her skin. Prim had asked if the juice could dye her hair dark. _"You shouldn't get it in your hair,"_ Katniss answered, somewhat confounded. _"But then I would look more like you,"_ Prim had said, twirling Katniss's braid. _"You shouldn't get it your hair,"_ Katniss repeated, but inside she thought, _Prim still loves me._ Katniss didn't protest when the girl got a knife from the kitchen and claimed a pile to peel. Those would be the last of the walnuts, at least unless Katniss found other trees. That first day, she had already gathered up all of the fallen nuts she could find. It was improbable enough they had escaped the squirrels and turkeys as long as they had.

After half an hour of steady walking, breath blowing out in little clouds the whole way, Katniss arrived at a small cabin hewn from logs and cobbled with mud. She guessed it might have been a hundred years old. The years had not been kind. The structure leaned perilously where one corner threatened to collapse.

Jesse Everdeen had used the ramshackle cabin as a place to escape inclement weather when he was out hunting and too far to return home. Katniss wondered if there might be traces of him there—some ash in the fireplace or a footprint in the dust of the hearth.

Maybe that was part of the reason she kept returning to this place, though she knew its limitations. It was a long trudge from home, but at least it gave her a destination, which seemed more manageable alone than just walking out into the woods.

When she was younger, the abandoned homestead had seemed tragically romantic. She had imagined various scenarios to account for the disappearance of its former residents. An aged couple, taking their last breaths together with hands clasped. A family all claimed by mysterious illness. A young man forced to flee when his past returned to haunt him. But now she had come too close to seeing just how easily people could slip away to conjure ghosts for the sake of amusement.

Even though it was the fourth day, it still felt strange being in the woods without her father. Too quiet, as if his absence were something that could be heard in the air, in the silence of even the blue jays that watched her from the twisted branches of the old apple orchard.

On Tuesday she had gathered dandelions and nuts. On Wednesday she had foraged more greens and scouted—unsuccessfully—for mushrooms or early fiddleheads. Katniss knew that greens could only keep them going so long. And also that, eventually, even the dandelions could be exhausted, like the small patches in their meadow. So it had been a revelation Thursday when she was picking chicory beside the orchard, and she watched a pair of squirrels chase one another around the base of a black walnut tree and thought: _meat_.

Because the woods had been so empty of life, and it had been so long since she had hunted, she hadn't thought to take her bow and arrow with her then. But she certainly had them with her today.

Her father had made the bow for her when she was eight years old. It was by far the best and most special birthday gift she could ever hope to receive. She'd replaced all the original arrows in the year since. Many had been lost when she first learned to shoot, others broken in the subsequent years of practice.

This was no longer practice.

Katniss slumped against a stump where she had a good line of sight on the walnut tree as the sun rose up behind it. The air had warmed slightly since she set out, and Katniss figured she may as well remove the gloves now rather than risk missing a shot by fumbling with them later. Immediately, her fingers missed their wool sheath. She balled up her hands and tucked the shaking fists into the armpits of her jacket. Her bow rested at her side.

The air was quiet and still. There was no movement in the trees.

And so she waited.

And waited.

_Daddy says animals can sense fear. Am I scaring them off?_

Katniss wasn't frightened of the squirrels, of course. They were harmless, tittering creatures. Prim even called them "cute." Katniss had shot at squirrels before. She had even hit a few. But her father had always been there to guide her. Though there was nothing wanting in its make, her bow had only ever been a child's toy. What she was about to do, if she was both lucky and good, she had never done entirely on her own.

She shifted her weight from one hip to another. The ground was cold on her bottom. If only she had thought to bring a flask of tea to warm her hands. Perhaps she needed to stand up, to shake some life into her limbs.

But then she caught the rustling of branches.

She heard them before she saw them. High, raspy barks and the scurrying of claws. Her hand snaked out to claim her bow.

She pushed herself up onto her right knee, eyes scanning the silhouetted branches as she nocked the arrow.

_There._

The subtlest flash of movement drew her eye. She raised the bow to where two squirrels faced off on a low branch. The taut string bit into the tender flesh of her fingertips. She aimed first at the nearer one but it twitched and so she turned the bow just slightly to target the other. They would run. Any second they would run and the opportunity would be lost. Without further hesitation, she sent the arrow flying and watched it take its path.

The squirrel fell, unceremoniously, to the earth.

Katniss leapt to claim it. Her boots made a _crunch crunch crunch_ sound as she strode through the frozen grass, no longer worried about maintaining silence. Her heart went _thump thump thump_ as she anticipated seeing her kill.

The thatch of fur was visible not far from the base of the walnut tree.

_Meat_, her brain said, as she padded closer. _ Meat, meat, meat._

Except the squirrel wasn't dead. Her arrow was lodged in the its side, just above the hind leg. It was a mortal wound without the kindness of godspeed. The creature squealed and thrashed.

Katniss cursed her unpracticed hand. Her mind raced. It would be easiest to turn away from the miserable creature, to simply wait until its convulsions ceased.

Her father would hate it if she did that. It went against everything he had taught her about hunting.

_But he never had this problem. He always hit them cleanly through the eye._

She had to put the squirrel out of its misery. It was wrong to allow such suffering.

_I could wring its neck._

But the creature continued to writhe wildly in the dirt, teeth and claws bared. Katniss feared she would be bit if she reached to grasp it.

_I could pick it up by the arrow shaft. _

She pulled her hand back.

_And then what would I do with it?_

A few feet away lay a large branch, likely blown down in one of the November storms. Katniss considered it, weighed the heft of it in her mind. It was about the diameter of her calf with a thick layer of rough grey bark. It would do.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she brought the branch crashing down in one decisive blow. She heard the crack, like a walnut shell being broken apart. And the squealing stopped.

She fought back the bile that threatened to rise up from her stomach, her hand rushing up to cover her mouth. She tossed the branch away and kneeled down over the little mass of blood and fur.

_Meat_, she told herself again. _Just meat._

How many times had she been with her father when he took down squirrels, rabbits, turkeys, deer? It shouldn't have surprised her that it was still warm to the touch. But she didn't usually do this part.

_Buck up. You have to finish this._

She held onto the tail and wiggled the bloodied arrow free, tucking it back into her quiver. She knew it would dull her knife to cut through bone, but she used it anyway so that she could discard the smashed remnants of the head. She couldn't bring herself to do that part with her bare hands.

The body was easier to look at after that. She held it up to allow some of the blood to drain from the neck. There were loops of brown twine threaded through several of the holes in her belt, and Katniss worked to hang the limp carcass from one of them, as she'd seen her father do. It took a couple minutes of fumbling before she secured her quarry.

There had been another squirrel on the branch. It might come back if she were quiet and patient, or others might appear. These woods were probably lousy with squirrels. But Katniss thought she'd had enough of hunting for the day. Her heart was still settling back into its normal rhythm.

Katniss figured she might put the game bag to another use. Brambles had begun to overtake one side of the cabin. Katniss wasn't one for roses, at least not the kind that grew in town. Their perfume was too sickly sweet, their overbred blossoms showy and contrived. But she had always liked these wild roses. The flowers had five simple white-pink petals around a sunshine-yellow center. The petals had been shed long ago but they left behind something more precious.

Flora Everdeen used to make a syrup from rose hips. She gave it to the Seam children in winter, when their parents would bring them to the Everdeen home with their bleeding gums and pale skin. Flora used to send Jesse out to pick watercress from the old mill race, and she would force it into the mothers' arms, telling them to serve it at least once a week, describing where they could find more. The Everdeen girls had never needed rose hip syrup. But many of their neighbors did.

So Katniss plucked the pendulous red fruits until her bag was overflowing with them. She just hoped that, unlike the chestnuts, they would still be good.

Katniss didn't have a pocket watch. Her father had one, but it had disappeared around the time of the trial, along with his Winchester rifle. Without one, Katniss had to be conservative in timing the walk home so that she wouldn't be late getting herself and Prim to school. Judging the angle of the sun it was time to turn back. As she wove among the game trails and narrow footpaths, Katniss couldn't help but reach down every few minutes to check the heft of her bag and feel for the fur at her belt.

With the horror of the squirrel bludgeoning behind her, she could look forward to a good meal this evening.

She had done it. She could do this.

She lifted her face and sent a whoop of unbridled joy up to the sky.

Katniss couldn't suppress her grin as she strode through the front door of their little house. Prim saw the squirrel, squealed, and rushed to hug her.

"Careful," Katniss admonished, halfheartedly pushing the girl back. "Don't dirty your school clothes on account of one measly squirrel."

Prim eyed the poor creature. "We haven't had squirrel since Daddy's been gone."

"This one doesn't look as good as Daddy's." But she was smiling nonetheless.

"And in the bag?" Prim's eager fingers reached out to inspect the contents.

Katniss snatched it away. "You'll see!" She glanced at the closed bedroom door. "Prim, please put the kettle on and then go wake Mama."

She set the bag down, and washed her hands and knife at the kitchen basin. Back outside, she laid the squirrel, face-down, on one of the trio of stumps that her father used to dress game.

She had watched this process countless times and tried to follow exactly what her father's hands had done. Pulling the hide from the body took more strength than she had expected, but with a few adjustments and using her boot to get leverage, she stripped it bare. Because of her poor shot, the hide was mangled and probably worthless, but she set it aside in case her mother might be able to find use for it as trim. She slit the belly and pushed her fingers inside.

Removing the glob of entrails was the worst part. It was bad enough to see it, but to actually feel the slippery warmth all around her fingers was a terrible reminder that this thing had just been alive, its heart beating like her own, until perhaps an hour ago. She gagged as she shook the slime from her fingers. The claret-red liver would be tasty, though, cooked with onion.

As she wiped her hands on a rag, Katniss heard her sister's voice through the window glass.

"Mama? Mama, Katniss came home with something wonderful. She needs you to get up so she can show you." But Prim's gentle, musical tone received no answer. "Mama, please?"

Katniss had to stop this. She couldn't stand it any longer. Prim's words were too close an echo of her own desperation on the back steps of the apothecary—_"Please! Please, we're your kin! I'll do anything you need, anything! Please open the door!" _Katniss didn't want to feel desperate anymore. She never wanted Prim to feel that way.

Katniss rushed inside, pausing just a moment to rinse her hands and find a plate on which to set the meat. She snatched up the game bag and pushed into the bedroom. All the while, she could hear Prim entreating their mother to_ get up please, you can do it, look at me, look at me, Mama._

Their mother sat upright and still in the bed. Her white-blonde hair was thin and disheveled. Her pale eyes were unfocused. Katniss stood over her, mouth set in a thin, firm line. Impatient, she held a fistful of rose hips in front of her mother's face.

"For you to make the winter syrup. I have a whole bag of them, and I can get more."

Her mother's eyes shifted down to consider the red fruits.

"Mama..." Katniss said it with the same caution she might use when first stepping out onto a frozen lake. "If you make that syrup, you can start seeing patients again. And we could get some trade."

Flora continued to stare at the fruit, lips unmoving, for a very long while.

"Mama, did you hear what I said?"

Whatever transformation Katniss was hoping for did not come.

_Would she be like this, now, if she hadn't lost the baby—or if there had never been a baby?_ As soon as she thought it, Katniss felt guilty. Her parents had been elated when Flora felt the quickening. Katniss remembered her awe upon hearing her mother liken the stirring of the baby inside her to the open and close of a luna moth's wings. _How could something so tiny have such an effect? _Prim begged them to name the baby Luna. _"And what if it's a boy?"_ their father had teased. _"Or have you decided boys aren't allowed in this house?" "If it's a boy, we'll name him Stormy Junior,"_ Prim said matter-of-factly. Stormy was the pony they kept for when Jesse had to ride out to make trades. They had all howled at the idea of Stormy Everdeen, Jr., laughing harder as Prim continued to press her case. _"Stormy is a very noble horse!"_ _"Sorry darling,"_ Flora said playfully, taking her husband's hand. _"I think we'd better keep our fingers crossed for a girl."_

Katniss tried to summon memories of all the many years full of such good days. She needed them as she looked down to where Flora Everdeen lay propped against a pillow, mute and expressionless.

Should she pity her? Resent her? Mourn her? She was so broken. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman whose once-strong arms had delivered half the babies in the Seam. Who had lovingly nursed Katniss's bee stings and skinned knees and scraped elbows. Whom Katniss had watched with admiration as time and again she took on the worst and most hopeless cases—all the burned flesh and mangled limbs that the mines coughed up—with the same cool, steady resolve.

"I can't..." Flora finally said. Ugly tears spilled over her cheeks and continued, unrepentantly, down to her bosom. "I can't. _I'm not a healer anymore._"

Katniss wanted to throw the bag down, to send all the precious red balls flying onto the bed and across the floor. She wanted to wrench Prim's hand away from where it stroked the papery skin of the woman's cheek. She wanted to show their mother just how right she was. That she wasn't a healer. She was a destroyer. Her weakness was destroying them all.

"My beautiful daughters... forgive me." The whisper was barely audible, but Flora was pulling Prim in to her chest and reaching an arm out toward Katniss. Her hand trembled where it hung in the air like a question mark.

Katniss didn't step forward to meet her. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "I got a squirrel. It's on the table."

She didn't wait to see if her mother would respond. There wasn't time, not if she was to get them to school before the tardy bell. There was still the Community Home to worry about.

Katniss turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, catching the briefest glimpse of her face in the mirror. How did it appear so much younger than she felt? There was dirt and maybe a little dried blood streaked across her cheek from the hunt, but she decided not to wipe it away. She was Seam, born and raised. And in that, didn't her classmates already expect her to be dirty and snot-nosed and wretched?

Katniss was smart—she got better marks than any of them—and that made it easier to ignore the little biting comments that were increasingly heaped upon her as more and more desks went empty. But what could possibly come of smart? School was strikingly incongruent with her life now—and perhaps not just now but always—even the seemingly good ways her life had changed in the week since The Bread. The cold mornings with their long trudges. The short-lived pride in little accomplishments that still never yielded enough. Falling into bed each night, more exhausted than she had ever imagined possible. And still, hunger haunted them.

What place was there now for equations and poetry and spelling bees? She was Seam. Her life was Seam. _Smart offers no exception._

She thought of how things had been before her father was sent away. That easy happiness, her naïve trust in her parents' ability to make everything right, was now exposed as a false image in a trick mirror. _Love offers no exception. _

Love was weakness. Seam was survival. Katniss decided the neighbors were right. Her mother had never really been Seam.

Katniss swapped the game bag for her school bag, with its unread lessons, and bent to tie the laces of her good boots. She grabbed up a handful of the walnuts and tucked them into one of the pockets of her sister's blue wool coat.

"Hurry, Prim. We need to get to school."

There was a new coldness in her voice that wasn't meant for Prim.

She couldn't be her mother's beautiful girl. She had to be a hunter.

The kettle screamed behind them as they went out the door, but Katniss pulled Prim's arm to keep her from turning back for it.

**A/N: Thank you again for your reviews. The feedback is greatly appreciated! I crosspost at rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) tumblr (d.o.t.) com and rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) wordpress (d.o.t.) com.**


	6. Rosehips

**A/N: Chapter 3, part 3 of 4. **

**Bold text indicates quotes drawn from the sources cited at the bottom of the page.**

**Winter 1909**

_What am I going to do with an entire bag full of rosehips?_

Katniss was perplexed. She tried to pay attention to her lessons. She tried to listen to Miss Portia. She tried to focus as she scribbled answers to the previous night's reading comprehension homework in the 15 minutes they got for morning recess. But her mind kept flashing to the game bag that awaited her at home, filled with what must have been at least five pounds of rose hips.

_Precious, perishable rosehips. _She sighed. _I am a foolish girl._

Rosehips had to be processed shortly after picked, lest they spoil. That was why her parents had always coordinated the harvest, Jesse going out to cut hips while Flora boiled water and sterilized glass bottles. Katniss hadn't had a backup plan when she picked the rosehips that morning.

She felt painfully naïve for thinking that the sight of the crimson fruits could act as quickly on her mother as the syrup they yielded had healed the woman's patients.

Katniss just wanted to put her head down on her desk and give in to the exhaustion that wracked her body. The early mornings and long treks were taking their toll. She hadn't been able to complete her lessons yet again.

Being unprepared like this was new for Katniss. She hated it. Whenever Miss Portia's questions to the class were met with silence, the teacher's hopeful gaze always fell to her. The other students would all expect to see Katniss's hand in the air, their pencils poised to note her response.

_I've compensated for them so many times over all these years. They owe me at least this one day._

But of course, Katniss realized, after all those years, they would probably like nothing better than to see her get her comeuppance.

And they were not disappointed.

As the morning wore on, Katniss struggled mightily to keep her eyes open. The assignment shoud have been a simple one: copy down the lines of a poem as Miss Portia read them aloud. They were studying American poets, and Miss Portia had chosen a long piece by William Cullen Bryant.

"**The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,  
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.**

The transcription was not only a memory aid but also a spelling and penmanship exercise.

**Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;  
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;**

Every few minutes Katniss's head would droop toward her chest. When her neck snapped up again, her eyes would open to find that the last few words had devolved into indecipherable chicken scratches.

**The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,  
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.**

She frantically erased the offending marks and rushed to catch up to the rest of the class.

**Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood  
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?**

Cursive had never been Katniss's strength anyway. She stole a glance at Mattie Schneider laboring dutifully in the desk to her left. Mattie had won the penmanship award every year for as long as Katniss could remember. The Schneiders ran the tailor shop. Katniss envied Mattie's perfect script even more than her puff-sleeved frocks that the other girls made such a fuss over. Puffed sleeves were an extravagance that not even many of the town families could afford on everyday school clothes.

**Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers  
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.**

Katniss's eyelids fluttered. Her grip loosened as her whole body dissolved into liquid. The pencil made a dull _plink, plink, plink_ as it bounced on the wood floor and came to rest against Mattie's right boot.

**The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain  
Calls not—"**

Miss Portia looked up from the book and caught Katniss's eyes closed, jaw slack.

"Katniss Everdeen!" The stern tone perfected over years in the classroom was tempered by surprise.

Katniss's body jerked to attention. Her mouth closed so quickly that her teeth crashed down on the sides of her tongue. _What?_ Her eyes were wide in confusion. She only realized what had happened when Mattie's sly fingers slid the pencil tentatively onto the corner of her desk.

"Do you find Bryant so dull? I must say I am disappointed by your response to the poem." Miss Portia's voice was colder than Katniss had ever heard it directed at her.

Katniss lowered her eyes down to her desktop. Her face burned. All around her, the other students gloated like Bryant's crows. Mean little Billy Coleman waited until Miss Portia's eyes were turned to sneak his head around and stick out his tongue, face contorted in triumph.

Katniss Everdeen never got in trouble.

There had only been the one other time...

"_How dare you?" _The memory of her own indignant cry ringing out over the quiet classroom doubled her shame. She wondered what Miss Portia must think of her. There would be no Peeta Mellark this time to claim a share of the blame.

A part of Katniss knew that she deserved whatever punishment was dispensed, but another part, more practical and less prone to guilt, prayed she wouldn't be kept after school. She had to figure a way to deal with all those rosehips, besides the usual tasks of caring for Prim and preparing supper. On Tuesday, Dewey Wheeler had fallen asleep during arithmetic and was kept after to copy the formulas 10 times each and wash the inside of all the classroom windows. The rumor on Wednesday morning was that Dewey hadn't gotten home until six o'clock.

Katniss awaited her punishment with an unresolved mix of resolve and trepidation.

_Please just let it not be after school. Prim has never walked alone before. Please not after school, please not after school..._

"Katniss, you will remain in the classroom during the noon recess."

She exhaled in relief but then caught herself and adjusted her comportment so as not to appear too pleased with her punishment.

The noon recess was always an awkward time for Katniss anyway—more so without a lunch pail to divert her attention and her stomach. Outside the structure of the classroom, her peers sometimes seemed like aliens to her. The boys liked to push and shove and one-up one another with childish pranks. The girls played with each others' hair and talked about clothes and toys and, more recently, boys. Katniss spent every recess trying to be invisible. She would almost prefer to pass the time with Miss Portia.

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Portia launched back into Bryant and the dead flowers.

Katniss chanced sending a small look of gratitude to Mattie Schneider for her discretion in returning the pencil. Katniss thought Mattie the most tolerable of the townies. They had been in class together since kindergarten. In all those years, Katniss had never heard Mattie speak a word against any of the Seam kids—but then again, Mattie was so cripplingly shy that Katniss had hardly heard her speak at all. It helped Katniss feel less lonely, though, to draft Mattie in her mind as a potential ally.

Katniss resolved to mimic Mattie's careful effort as she committed the final verses of the poem to her notebook in her neatest hand.

Soon the bell for the noon recess rang, and the students hurried out to take their lunch in the schoolyard. Katniss remained rooted to her desk, trying to guess at whatever chore Miss Portia might assign. Scrubbing the baseboards? Dusting the cobwebs from the ceiling and shelves? Sweeping the ash from around the coal stove? Katniss's refusal to wash the dirt from her face that morning suddenly seemed very practical in light of the likely tasks.

"Katniss—" _Here's the verdict._ "Dear, you look a fright."

Katniss felt her muscles relax. She hadn't even realized she had been clenching them until that moment.

The last thing, the very _last_ thing Katniss was expecting at that moment was compassion. But Miss Portia looked down at her with such kindness in her eyes that it only made Katniss's guilt over falling asleep more acute. Before she could stop herself, she was rushing to confess.

"I'm sorry that I fell asleep. I didn't mean to, it was a beautiful poem, and I didn't intend any offense to you or to the, uh, legacy of Mr. Bryant by my actions, and I want you to know that I never—"

Miss Portia put up a palm to stop the flow of words. "Katniss, slow down. Take a breath, dear."

So she did.

"It is a beautiful poem, in some ways, yes. There are flowers enough, to be sure. But what is the significance of the flowers?"

Katniss thought back to the final verse. She was good at committing poems to memory, could recall them easily. But she struggled sometimes to see their deeper meaning. She was not good with words in that way.

_**And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,  
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.  
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,  
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:  
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,  
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.**_

There was no hidden meaning to suss out. "Bryant is comparing a young girl's death to the death of flowers in winter."

Miss Portia pushed her further. "Who is the girl, Katniss? Do you know?"

She shook her head. "No, ma'am."

"Bryant is writing of his dear sister."

_He was burying his sister. _The realization hit her like arrows It was her own worst fear. _How callous I must appear—must be—to have fallen asleep._

"I had been watching you out of concern that the poem might upset you. I knew I would not forgive myself if I caused you further pain. And that _you_ would not forgive _me_ if I made you weep in front of the class..."

She had seen enough of Katniss to know the girl's emotions ran deep and strong, though she might try to appear unmoved on the surface. Katniss was so earnest. Miss Portia tried to lighten the mood.

"...I certainly did _not _expect to catch you snoring."

Katniss was mortified. "Oh, no! Did I really snore?"

"You really did snore," Miss Portia confirmed.

_Billy Coleman must have loved that._

"I know it is a difficult subject, but I must ask. How are you and Primrose faring?"

Katniss gave her stock response. "We are well, thank you." Her voice was uninflected.

Miss Portia examined the girl's face with evident concern. "But I see the dirt on your cheek and the dark circles under your eyes... you look as though you haven't slept in ages. Katniss, you must trust me with the truth. I'm only concerned for your welfare."

Katniss spit onto her fingers and scrubbed them against her cheek where the dirt had stained it.

"No Mrs. Cardew? No Community Home?" she asked.

"You have my word."

And Katniss knew that she did.

The words came flooding out, as if a dam had broken inside her "The truth is, Miss Portia, I haven't been sleeping much, because I've been going out into the woods to forage in the mornings, and I just started hunting—I even got a squirrel today—but I haven't had time to do my lessons, and I'm so tired, and I just thought if I could make it through today I'd have the weekend to catch up."

Miss Portia didn't seem as interested in Katniss's _mea culpa_ as the girl had thought she would be. Instead, the teacher asked, "You go to the woods alone—is it safe?"

Katniss put on a brave front. "My father taught me how to look out for myself."

What they both knew, but did not say, was that whatever dangers the woods might hold, they were certainly safer than the mine.

"And your mother. Is she well?"

"She's still... not well. But Prim is always able to coax her into eating something."

"But are _you_ eating? You and Primrose?"

"Yes, ma'am." It was back to that guarded tone.

Miss Portia pressed further. "_What_, exactly, are you eating?"

"We've had plenty of greens, and squirrel for tonight, and walnuts. I'll be able to hunt more over the weekend. And," Katniss added without thinking, "we've had bread."

She wanted to kick herself. _Why did I mention the bread? Now she's bound to wonder how I got it._

These details helped reassure Miss Portia that Katniss was telling the truth. The Everdeen girls had some food, at least, and Katniss said she was hunting. This seemed promising. Jesse Everdeen was known as one of the best hunters in the county. Yet, Miss Portia noticed, Katniss didn't appear to be carrying a lunch pail. The teacher took an apple and a small round of cheese from her own pail and pressed it into Katniss's hand.

This time, Katniss seemed to know better than to try to refuse. "Thank you, Miss Portia."

"You're welcome, dear."

"Should I save it until after my punishment?"

Little Katniss Everdeen, always so cautious and serious. The poor girl had enough burdens to bear.

"Having opened yourself to accepting help like this has probably exacted more discomfort than any of the chores I could assign to punish you."

Miss Portia paused, grinning conspiratorially. "But I don't suppose that would be fair to poor Dewey, would it?"

"No," Katniss agreed, mouth twitching at the corners. "I don't suppose so."

Katniss watched as Miss Portia walked over to the auxiliary board at the side of the room and took up a piece of chalk. Katniss shook out her hand and readied her pencil to transcribe the Bryant poem, which would have been the typical punishment for a transgression like sleeping during the lesson.

"Your penmanship _could_ use some improvement," Miss Portia said. "I want you to practice by copying it down 50 times."

_50 times?_ _But it was such a long poem! _ It would be impossible finish before the noon recess ended. Maybe she would have to stay after school after all.

However, when Katniss looked up from her notebook, she saw Miss Portia pointing to a phrase she had just written on the board.

"**Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it."**

The teacher streaked the chalk across the board, underlining the words for emphasis.

"50 times, then we will consider your punishment complete."

She looked down at her pupil with all the motherly affection in her heart shining through in her eyes.

"I forgive you for falling asleep, Katniss. You're a good girl. So you must allow yourself to look forward rather than dwelling on the mistakes of the past." She smiled and walked back toward her desk.

"And eat that apple!"

As Katniss scribbled diligently in her notebook, Miss Portia tucked into a pile of essays that had to be graded before the enrichment class met later that afternoon.

At the top of the pile: "Logic and Merits of the Infield Fly Rule" by Mitchell Clarke. The teacher thumbed through it quickly, scribbling a hasty B+ at the top of the first page in red pencil. It was not the boy's best work, but it was certainly far from his worst. Miss Portia had learned the previous year that Mrs. Clarke would not stand for anything less than a B. _"He simply must maintain the grades to qualify into a top engineering school."_ Miss Portia had suggested arranging tutoring sessions, perhaps with Peeta or one of the older students.

But Mrs. Clarke had made it clear that was not the type of arrangement she had in mind. The woman was the head of the school board, the president of the boosters club, the chairwoman of the library foundation, and the founder of the Twelfth Creek Methodist Episcopal Ladies Aid Society. There were some battles, Miss Portia knew, that weren't worth fighting. She just hoped Mitchell was as promising a ball player as he seemed to think he was.

**XOXO**

"How do you think we should cook it? We could fry it... ooh, I wish we had some onion!"

Prim hadn't stopped talking about the squirrel the entire walk home.

Katniss didn't mind. It was wonderful to see Prim excited about something, sounding more like the girl she had been before. _Before we lost everything. _"It's too early for ramps yet. It will be another month, at least."

Katniss leapt to avoid a mud puddle that lingered in the low spot where they turned off the lane onto the short path to the Everdeen home. She was about to tell Prim that they didn't even have the lard for frying when she caught the sound of yelling and something breaking. She paused to locate the source of the commotion among the little frame houses that lined the lane.

"We could roast it on the spit, over the fire, with a little bit of—"

_Shouting. Crying. Peacekeepers._

"Prim, go inside, please."

Prim caught the urgency in her tone and ducked into the front door, pausing just long enough to make sure that her sister was in no immediate danger.

Three houses down, Sheriff Cray could be seen dragging Young Ray Fielder out of the house toward the lane, where the Black Maria awaited. Katniss had seen that wagon before. She had glimpsed it through the window the day they took her father away. She wondered how she could possibly have missed it as they walked into the Seam. Her flesh prickled, and the tiny hairs began to rise on the back of her neck.

The neighbors were beginning to gather. Mrs. Fielder was out on the porch, pleading with the sheriff, while her husband, Old Ray, held onto her shoulder urging her to step back into the house. But the woman only grew more desperate and angry.

Katniss didn't know the Fielders well, though they were kin to Leevy's mother. They had moved to Twelfth Creek just a few years earlier, after they lost their farm in the valley. Times were difficult, even for those who had the means to grow their own food. Katniss figured times must have been difficult, indeed, for the Fielders to trade fresh air and sunshine for the stifling darkness of the mines.

Katniss knew that both the Fielder men had been on first shift with her father, though they were never on the same crew. Young Ray worked as a spragger, keeping the wheels of the coal cars in motion. Katniss guessed he was around 16 or 17 now. She didn't really know; he hadn't been enrolled in school.

Maybe it was because the Fielders were newcomers, then, that none of the neighbors spoke up or tried to challenge Cray when he twisted the boy's arm back against his body and kicked his feet out from under him to try to pry him from the porch. No. This wasn't anything like the chaos that mad stampede when Jesse Everdeen had been taken away. It was almost surreal the way Mrs. Fielder's screams echoed against the silence of the Seam. Young Ray continued to hold out against the sheriff until Cray brought the nightstick down across the back of his skull.

Katniss took a few steps closer to where Leevy's mother, Mrs. Collier, stood with her arms folded tight against the horrific scene.

"What are they saying he did?" Katniss asked, a hand covering her mouth to avoid drawing attention from the peacekeepers that had been deployed to stand guard among the crowd.

"_Say_ he talked to some photographer, one of them labor men. Led him down into the mine and took him around to talk to the other boys." The widow spoke out of the corner of her mouth, in voice barely loud enough for Katniss to make out. Mrs. Collier had good reason to be so guarded. Two of her three boys worked in the mine. Leevy did too. They were all probably in the mines at that very moment.

"Sam and Charlie?" Katniss asked, purposefully keeping the question vague.

Katniss took the widow's silence as confirmation. "But that's no crime," Katniss hissed, to no one in particular. She couldn't believe Young Ray was being taken in for something that seemed so harmless. It was just photographs. No one had been injured or killed, nothing had been stolen.

"Boss don't like it none," Mrs. Collier said. "And don't we know that's all the law they need around here."

Young Ray was being folded and twisted and pushed into the wagon, two of the peacekeepers positioned to block this from the view of the crowd. Still, in the gap between the men's broad torsos, Katniss could see the way the boy's arm hung limp against his side, and it frightened her.

She thought of her father. _Did they do beat him too? Did he look like that—like he might have been dead?_

_She was been shut up in the bedroom with Prim when Cray and the peacekeepers came to take their father away. Their mother had made them swear not to open the door. The girls huddled on their parents' bed, clinging to one another, while the rest of their world spun madly around them. The shouting from the crowd—so many of their neighbors had been Jesse's long-time comrades in the mines—was interspersed with the sounds of glass breaking, the clang of rocks hurled against the metal sides of the wagon, the piercing whinnying of the ponies. Only when Katniss heard the roar of the crowd retreat as the men clamored after the wagon, shouting after it as it rolled toward the Justice Building, did she dare go to the window. She could see her mother, collapsed on the Colliers' porch next door, weeping into Mrs. Collier's arms. It was largely just the women who remained, on almost every porch along the lane, as far as Katniss could see. Old Mrs. Ripper started it, and Katniss watched it spread, porch by porch, house by house, down the row. The women brought two fingers to their lips and raised them aloft, holding them up toward where the wagon must then be passing through the maples and out of the Seam. It was an ancient gesture in these mountains, one that had largely passed out of use, except at funerals. _

_It meant you are an inseparable part of us. It meant our hearts go with you. It meant you are loved._

But old Ripper was not out on her porch this day. Would there be no one to salute Young Ray Fielder? She watched her neighbors retreat back into their houses, pulling the doors closed behind them. Mrs. Collier moved to comfort her sister-in-law.

Katniss pressed two fingers to her lips, but with the peacekeepers watching her, she didn't dare raise them.

The front room was empty when Katniss finally went inside. She figured Prim must be curled up in their mother's room. She wondered if, like her, they were thinking of Jesse Everdeen's last day at home.

Katniss slumped into a chair and let her head fall against her forearms on the kitchen table. All the joy she had taken in the anticipation of supper was gone. The game bag and its contents loomed large before her, in exactly the same position on the table where she had left them that morning, on the same plane as her face. She allowed her eyes bring the weave of the canvas in and out of focus.

_Stupid rosehips._

All the good in them was probably going to waste, being broken down in the warm air of the house, since she had wrenched them from the woods. She should have left them. At least the birds might have used them better.

_I hate rosehips._

But someone might yet use them.

_Ripper wasn't home. _She remembered. _The Hob is operating tonight._

Katniss had tagged along behind her father when he went to the market to trade. She had liked seeing the familiar warmth with which the older men greeted him, the way he clasped their hands in both of his, how his face lit up when he introduced her as his daughter.

The Hob had a bad reputation among the town folks, who mostly bought from the merchant shops and the new mail-order catalogs. Katniss understood that The Hob could be a bit rough and tumble—especially in the late evenings when the alcohol had been flowing—but it was the very heart of the Seam. Generations of Seam families had exchanged goods in the old wood barn, part of a black market that had started in rebuke to the scrip system pushed on them by the mine. Jesse Everdeen had been trading there since he was a boy. His mother had kept a stall to sell berry preserves in the summer, and his grandfather had been among those that first established the underground barter network.

The Hob was as much a birthright as Katniss could claim.

"I'm heading out for awhile!" she called, grabbing up the bag. "Be home before suppertime!"

The last time Katniss had been at The Hob was on one of the hollow days. She had tried to trade some of Prim's old baby clothes, the clothes their mother had saved those many years. Katniss's hadn't asked permission to take the clothes. But they were so threadbare that not even the poor mothers of the Seam would give anything for them, and back home they had come.

The building sat on a low-lying piece of wasteland where the edge of the Seam slumped down toward the valley. Behind it, where the rushes and cattails grew, the coal man heaped all the dust and ash from collected from town. In the evenings, the drunks would wander out to piss on the dust piles. Sometimes they made it past the watchman with pipes and cigarettes. It was a wonder the piles had never fully caught and sent the old boards up in flame.

It was Friday night, and Katniss could hear the fiddle music as she approached. The drinks flowed and the festivities carried on despite Young Ray Fielder's arrest. It was probably a good time to trade, Katniss realized, since the peacekeepers would be busy with the booking. Cray had no real interest in shutting down The Hob—Ripper's white liquor was too dear to him—but it was not unusual for the sheriff or his deputies to exact various fees and fines on the vendors. Katniss guessed that whatever arrangement her father had with Cray wouldn't be extended to her in Jesse's absence.

The Spicers had one of the longest-running stalls in The Hob. Jesse went to them for camphor and turmeric and the other healing herbs Flora used that couldn't be obtained from the local gardens and woods. Katniss guessed they would be the most likely buyer for rosehips, and she hoped that their relationship with her father would get her a fair deal.

She wove through narrow corridors, dodging women with baskets protruding off their hips and men stumbling from drink. A pair of dirty-faced market children screamed past chasing a stray dog, the younger boy nearly knocking her off her feet. Katniss reached down to steady her bag and make sure its contents didn't spill out onto the packed-dirt floor.

The air around the Spicers' stall was thick with a confusing range of aromas—pungent, earthy, sharp, grassy, skunky, sickly sweet. Katniss preferred the familiar smell of the pine needle sachets, and stood next to them for a moment to breathe it in. The stall was lined with row upon row of jars filled with colored powders and dried leaves and exotic roots. Neither of the kindly elder Spicers were in sight; Katniss wondered if the the young woman behind the stall was kin to them or a hired girl.

She paused to watch the young woman for a moment as she weighed out a bag of cinnamon for a towheaded townie. On the surface, there was nothing remarkable about the young woman. She had the same olive skin and grey eyes as most everyone around her. Her dark hair was tied up under a scarf, the way most of the market girls wore it, except for a few loose pieces that fell down over her forehead. But there was something familiar in the angle of her eyes and the slant of her cheekbones.

_Where have I seen her before?_

Katniss guessed the young woman was probably a few years too old for them to have been in school at the same time. She hadn't been at the stall on any of Katniss's previous visits.

_Well, everyone in the Seam looks the same_. _And we're practically all kin if you go back far enough._

Katniss waited for the townie to finish buying his cinnamon. She was suddenly self-conscious of how small she must appear, dwarfed behind the tall young man with his broad shoulders, and how shabby her father's old jacket must appear. _But he's the one who doesn't belong, not me. _She figured the dry goods vendor in town must have run out for the young man to venture in to The Hob.

The wait was taking longer than she would have expected. She folded her arms and looked to where a group of children were playing ring-around-the-rosy over by the fiddlers. She tried not to listen as the young man and woman made conversation. Still, the occasional giggle registered in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them passing one of Ripper's thin flasks. The young woman choked and coughed after taking her drink, and the young man laughed before reclaiming the bottle.

The strap of the game bag was beginning to dig into Katniss's shoulder. _Will they never notice me here?_ Katniss didn't have any older siblings and had no older friends, save Leevy, who was just 14. She felt intimidated by the young man and woman, who seemed to exist, for that moment, in a world of two.

She built the courage to clear her throat. "Ahem!"

They looked up, clearly taken by surprise.

When the young man turned to her and pushed the long blond hair back off his face, Katniss recognized him immediately.

_Peeta Mellark's brother._

With a big cheshire grin, the young man pushed the flask toward Katniss. "Take the chill off?"

"Calvin!" the young woman squealed, leaning over to swat his shoulder with her hand. "She's just a little girl!"

"Easy, Nellie!" he said, a bit unsteady on his feet.

And that was when Katniss was finally able to place her.

_Nellie Brewster. Ripper's granddaughter._

When Katniss had last met her, it had been on the doorstep of the Everdeen home the previous spring.

_It was well after ten o'clock at night, and she was crying. That sort of thing wasn't so unusual in the home of a healer. But she didn't appear to be hurt, and she had walked there of her own accord, so she couldn't be too ill. Katniss did as her mother asked and put the kettle on. Flora ushered the young woman, who shyly introduced herself as Nellie Brewster, into one of the kitchen chairs. Flora waved Jesse back to bed, sending Prim with him. The women spoke in hushed tones. "When was your last bleeding?" "But you say you've felt it?" "Do you have any idea when?" When Katniss set the steaming kettle on the table, her mother was kneeling on the floor, hands up under Nellie's untucked blouse, feeling for something along her stomach. Flora stood and shook her head. "It wouldn't be safe. The draught would have to be too strong. It would be very risky." Nellie started sobbing again. "Shh, shh." Flora stroked the girl's hair. "Katniss, you can put the kettle away, please. Then go back with your father."_

She wondered what had happened to Nellie between that night and this one. The young woman's face looked flushed and healthy, and there was no sign of tears in her eyes now.

Calvin Mellark lifted his legs over a mess of weights and measures that lay on the floor and moved back behind the stall with Nellie. He stood behind her, wrapping his large arms around her waist. She giggled, and they swayed like that for a few moments before he pulled her backward, holding her tight while her arms flailed in surprise, so that she came to rest in his lap atop a low stack of crates. Nellie threw her head back and laughed riotously. Cal nuzzled his face into her neck.

Katniss's jaw almost fell to the floor.

_How can they behave so brazenly? And in public!_

Katniss had seen married couples hold hands and even kiss—chastely. But these teenagers clearly were not married. Moreover, town-Seam relationships, while not outright forbidden, were certainly scorned. For as affectionate as they might be at home, Jesse and Flora had always been cautious whenever they were outside the house. Katniss didn't know exactly what they had been through, but she'd heard her mother tell her father sometimes when he'd reach out to take her hand as they walked through town that they should wait, that it wasn't worth the trouble.

Cal's blue-green eyes caught Katniss staring. He pointed a finger in her direction. "The girl with the squirrels!" he drawled, seemingly delighted to make the connection.

Nellie craned her head back and looked at him dubiously. "You know her?"

"This little lady used to bring us squirrels every Sunday," Cal said, nearly knocking over a precipitously balanced tower of little spice bottles with the sweep of his arm.

Katniss moistened her lips with her tongue and cleared her throat. "Erm, well, my father did."

Cal nodded dumbly, then snapped his fingers. "Everdeen!" he shouted, too loudly.

"Yes," Katniss said, not expecting the young man to remember.

He leaned closer to Nellie, brushing her ear with his lips. "See, baby? I know the Seam."

Nellie raised her eyebrows. "You know the Seam? _Pft!_ You're town through and through." Despite the dismissive tone, Katniss noticed, the young woman seemed at ease in his embrace. "Every person in Twelfth Creek knows Jesse Everdeen." She looked directly at Katniss, and spoke softly. "Bless him, honey, and your dear mama too."

_She remembers._

Nellie brought two fingers to her mouth. Cal gazed down at her and moved a large hand around to meet hers, their fingers interlacing.

"Thank you," Katniss said shyly, watching the way the young man's fingertips brushed against Nellie's lips before the young woman kissed them away.

_What are they playing at? Does she like that? _Katniss feared it might feel suffocating, to have a strange young man's arms around you. But clearly Nellie felt otherwise.

Cal shifted his shoulders back and forth, rocking their intertwined bodies from side to side. He narrowed his eyes playfully. "I need more _obscure_ Seam friends to prove myself to you? What about her?" He nodded toward where Katniss still stood in front of the stall.

Nellie yanked her hand back in mock disdain. "_'Her'_? You two must be very close."

Cal leaned clumsily toward Katniss, coming dangerously close to toppling both himself and Nellie from atop the crates. "What's your name?" he asked in a stage whisper.

Katniss pulled back guardedly. After a few moments, she decided that Cal, though drunk, was harmless. "Katniss."

"This is my friend Katniss... Everdeen," he announced dramatically. "Perhaps you know her father—"

He looked to Katniss for help.

"Jesse," she supplied. She couldn't help but smile at the young man's buffoonery.

"Yes, as I was saying, her father is Jesse Everdeen. Squirrel hunter extraordinaire."

Nellie wiggled devilishly against his embrace. "So let's see... between me, Mr. Everdeen, and Miss Katniss here..." She held up her hand, wiggling three fingers. "I can hardly do the sum," she teased. "Is that _three_ Seam folk you've deigned speak to?"

Cal folded her small hand within his. Nellie giggled as his other hand tickled her waist.

_This was Peeta Mellark's brother? _Katniss wondered.He certainly didn't act the way boys from good merchant families were supposed to. And he seemed the very opposite of the bookish boy she knew from school. _Then again, that boy did pull my hair once... and he also saved my life_. Peeta Mellark confused her. She really had no idea what to expect from him, so why should she have any clue as to what his brothers would be like? The only thing Katniss was confident in was that Mrs. Mellark would certainly not approve of her son consorting with Seam girls at The Hob.

Katniss wondered how long Cal and Nellie had known one another. They certainly seemed comfortable together. Nellie's eyes danced across the place where their arms wove around one another, her tan wrist contrasted against his strong, freckled forearm.

"Three Seam friends... Prince Mellark," she mocked, settling back further against his chest. "How well you understand the souls of the peasants."

"Maybe it's not their souls I'm interested in," he breathed. His hair fell down into his eyes as he bent to nibble kisses along Nellie's ear.

_Do they have no sense of propriety?_

Yet Katniss found herself wondering if the golden stubble was terribly scratchy against the young woman's face. Perhaps that was what elicited the giggles. Katniss's father was always clean-shaven. He had grown a mustache once, years ago, but Flora made him shave it after a few weeks. Katniss remembered her mother complaining that it was too tickly.

_Stop staring at them._

"AHEM!" she interrupted again, hands on her hips.

They looked up, sharing a quiet smile.

Katniss heaved the bag of rosehips onto the counter. "I picked them fresh today."

Reluctantly, Nellie stood to examine the contents. Cal let out a deep breath and reached back to a nearby shelf to pull a pine-needle cushion down onto his lap.

Nellie lowered the bag onto a scale. She stirred her hand through it, checking for consistency from top to bottom. She cupped a few of the red fruits in her palm, rolling her thumb over them. She picked out one specimen, examining it in the light, pressing it between her fingers, biting down into it with her molars.

Katniss watched intently. _This is it. Please don't say no. Just don't say no._ "Well?" she finally asked.

Nellie took a moment, sizing up the bag and the girl before her. "They're not as fresh as we're used to." She paused again. "I can give you half a dol—"

"Don't let her fool you," Cal piped up. "The old man will just mark them up and take them down to the apothecary."

"CAL!" Nellie snapped.

Katniss started to reach for the bag. "Is that so?" It was a bluff. There was no way she could go to the apothecary herself. They would never open the door to her, trade or no trade.

"Wait!" Nellie put a hand on Katniss's arm to stop her. "I'll give you a dollar for the bag."

Katniss looked over at Cal. He quirked an eyebrow, daring her.

"Thank you, but I believe I could get more from the apothecary."

"A dollar and a quarter," Nellie caved. "You won't do better than that. You have my word." She turned to shoot an icy glare at the young man still slouched on the crate.

Cal winked and took another long pull from the flask.

Nellie shook the rose hips into a crate and counted out a dollar and a quarter from a pocket in her apron. Katniss took a moment to appreciate the weight of the coins in her palm before turning away.

"Hey, kid." The words were slurred.

Katniss looked back.

"You ever get any squirrels?"

The young man's eyes were beginning to go unfocused from the alcohol, he sat blinking at some spot out on the horizon. Katniss needed a moment to compose a response. She had gotten one squirrel—one pathetic, mangled squirrel—just that morning. But she planned to get many more, and it would be nice to have the baker as an option for trades. Her mouth watered as she recalled the soft chew of bread in her mouth, the combination of nuts and fruit and spice. She would very much like to know how that cinnamon would be used.

She tried to sound confident. "I get squirrels."

He pushed the hair back behind his ears and trained his blue-green eyes on her for an uncomfortably long time. "Then don't be a stranger, Katniss Everdeen."

And then, despite Nellie's best efforts to catch him, Cal Mellark lurched forward, the crates flying out from beneath his large frame, and he hit floor, out cold.

Katniss used some of the coins to buy a bag of cornmeal, a pound of lard, a cup of salt, and an onion. Everyone she spoke with inquired after her family. One of the vendors, an older woman Katniss barely knew, gave her a stick of hard candy to take back to Prim. Katniss tried to keep her ears open to any news of Young Ray Fielder, but heard nothing.

When she got back home, she was surprised to see her mother and sister together in the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks.

Prim looked up from where she was swirling a bunch of greens in a bowl of cool salted water. "I found a new patch of dandelions behind the Colliers' house," Prim beamed.

"Good job, Little Duck." Had the girl been out wandering the Seam by herself? "But did you ask the Colliers' permission?"

Prim glanced over to their mother, who was working on the squirrel, flaying the meat from the bones.

"Mama asked. We were over watching little Teddy while Mrs. Collier and Leevy were with the Fielders."

"Well," Katniss said lamely. She was dumbstruck. Their mother? Looking after a three-year-old? The woman was barely able to care for herself. She hadn't been out of the house in weeks other than to sneak back to the outhouse.

"Leevy wanted to tell you hello," Flora said carefully, unwilling to meet Katniss's glare.

"Well," Katniss said again. She pulled her purchases from her bag and laid them out on the counter.

"Ooo, you got onion!" Prim exclaimed. "Now how are we going to cook this squirrel?"

That night they ate squirrel stew with cornmeal dumplings and dandelion salad. Prim declared it the best thing she'd ever tasted. She didn't even eat the candy right away, because she said she wanted to keep the taste of the stew in her mouth.

Flora shooed Katniss and Prim out to do their homework by the fireplace while she cleared the table and washed the plates.

"Mama?" Katniss asked, as Prim settled in front of the fire with a book.

Flora looked up and smiled. It had been so long since she had heard that gentle tone in her daughter's voice. There had been times when she didn't think she ever would hear it again, didn't think she ever deserved to hear it.

"I know there isn't much..." They had all had second helpings of the stew, and there were maybe just two or three small bowls remaining in the pot. "But I'd like to take some stew over to the Fielders."

Flora was so overwhelmed by the goodness and self-sacrifice in Katniss's request that she had to reach her hands down to steady herself on the counter. It was like Jesse was there with her, in their daughter. "Yes," her voice caught in her throat. "Yes, I think they'd like that."

Katniss watched her mother's lip tremble. _No more crying. I couldn't stand it if you cried._ She thought she might have to run out of the room. _Just when I thought you'd come back to us._

So she was relieved when Flora sniffled once and straightened up and began dishing the leftover stew into an earthenware bowl. When she passed the bowl to Katniss, she didn't let go right away. "My beautiful daughter," she said. This time, it wasn't a question. Katniss lowered her head, suddenly self-conscious.

Mrs. Collier answered the door at the Fielder's house. She accepted the dish stew with courtesy, but also with the reservation of anyone raised in the Seam, of a widow had seen her neighbors' kindness come and go, of someone who, like Katniss, knew how quickly owed could turn to owing.

_But this is not about that,_ Katniss wanted to explain. _Not at all. I just thought it was something they needed. _

But of course she couldn't say this. So she left Mrs. Collier with her best wishes for the family and ran back home to join her sister by the fire. She planned to rise early the next morning. With the whole of the weekend free to spend in the woods, she hoped to bring home more squirrels, maybe even a rabbit or two.

Katniss changed into her nightgown and knelt beside Prim at the edge of their bed. She could see her sister's lips moving, mouthing the words to a prayer. The Everdeens weren't devout. Flora had been raised Presbyterian but left the church when she left home. Jesse said he'd always felt the forest was cathedral enough for him.

Katniss folded her hands together and raised them to her chest.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't usually pray. She wasn't even sure if she believed there was anyone to pray _to_.

Instead, she tried to list all the things she had to be thankful for. Her mother, up and out of bed. Prim there beside her. Their full bellies. Miss Portia. Her neighbors in the Seam and the vendors at The Hob. All the little acts of kindness that knitted their lives together. She even decided to include Calvin Mellark for his unexpected help with the rosehips. And then she added Peeta, the boy with the bread.

As she lay next to Prim, both of them drifting toward sleep, Miss Portia's words floated across the backs of her eyelids.

_Tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes_.

**XOXO**

"Psst..."

"**Help us to do the things we should**

"Peet..._ Peeta!"_

**To be to others kind and good**

Peeta continued to mouth the words but cocked his head back slightly toward where Mitchell sat in the row just behind him.

"Catch after this. Bertie's in too."

**In all we do in work or play**

Peeta quickly nodded his assent. He and Mitchell had figured out when they'd had Mrs. Jackson back in Grade 4 that the woman had the eyes of an eagle and the ears of a post. So long as they kept their mouths moving, she would just assume they were singing along with the rest of the Sunday school class.

Peeta thought it was probably best for everyone if he wasn't actually singing. His voice had begun to change in recent months, and it no longer seemed to be under his control. Only a post could tolerate the squeaks, pops, cracks. He wished his voice would hurry up and change into whatever it wanted to become before the speech and debate contest in the spring.

**To grow more loving every day."**

"Very nice, children," Mrs. Jackson called out as the students sank back into their seats. The girls took a moment to adjust the layers of their skirts beneath them, the boys shrugged under the collars of freshly starched shirts.

The older woman sat in a chair at the front of the room. She raised her head up high so that her eyes could scan the rows of blond heads. "Peeta Mellark." Peeta sat at attention. "I noticed you looking particularly eager during the Morning Hymn. Shall I take that as indication that you volunteer to recite our verses for today?"

_Old Eagle-Eye Jackson still doesn't miss a thing. _Peeta pushed himself up to stand. He could hear Mitchell behind him let out a sigh of relief. With Mrs. Jackson, the interrogative was not a question.

"Acts 27, verses 22 to 25." Peeta was thankful he was such a quick study, because he had only had a few moments to look over the verses during the dinner break. His keen memory was always an asset.

Peeta stood, hoping the crinkling of the wax-paper packet in his pocket wasn't too loud. He felt the other students look up to him.

He pushed his shoulders back and spoke, trying to push past the uncontrollable breaks in his voice. "And now I exhort you to be of good cheer: for there shall be no loss of any man's life among you, but of the ship / For there stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I serve / saying, fear not, Paul; thou must be brought before Caesar; and lo, God hath given thee all them that sail with thee / Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer: for I believe God, that it shall be even as it was told to me." He waited for his dismissal.

"Acts 27. The story of Paul's voyage through the storm. Peeta, you may take your seat," Mrs. Jackson commanded.

Peeta did so, smoothing his pants so that he would not wrinkle the precious packet he had so carefully prepared that morning. It was practically burning a hole in his pocket. He fixed his eyes on a pair of blonde heads two rows up. He would have to make sure that he could catch them as soon as Sunday school let out.

"Boys and girls, we continue our lessons with the story of Paul, whose good cheer was a life-line to himself and others in a time of peril."

Mrs. Jackson moved sluggishly, knees creaking with age though her hands remained steady as she opened the Palmer lesson guide. Though she taught the Grade 6 to 8 group each Sunday, she continued to treat them as if they were the Grade 4 students they had been when she met them.

_She probably taught my parents when they were in Grade 4_, Peeta thought, _and maybe even their parents before that._

She paused to unfold a pair of spectacles and settle them atop her nose before reading aloud from the manual. **"One day, a great sailing vessel loaded with grain put out to sea..."**

Almost instinctively, Peeta leaned forward in his seat. Perhaps it was all the happy memories associated with Mrs. Jackson's reading voice from when he had been young, but he found himself quickly engrossed in the story of Paul and the storm.

"**Being exceedingly tossed with a tempest, they lightened the ship, throwing over some of the grain..."**

Peeta felt a grin creep across his lips. _Oh, Mother would not like that._ Nothing in the bakery was wasted. Only once had Peeta and Cal ever attempted to start a flour fight, and their bottoms were sore at least two days hence.

"**Still the boat was tossed from one side to the other. The fourth day the clouds grew darker..." **

Peeta had never been outside of Twelfth Creek, let alone seen the ocean. He was frightened by the thought of being captive to the force of its roiling, churning waves.

"**And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, all hope they could reach the shore was taken away..."**

_How would I behave, facing such danger?_

Peeta thought of another story and another storm.

In the past week, he had nearly finished _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. Since Cal had been returning home late, Peeta could get in several chapters before each night before the sound of Cal's boots ascending the stairs cued him to roll onto his side in pretense of sleep. And since his father was under the impression that the book was on loan from Mitchell, Peeta had even risked bringing it down to the bakery to read while he waited on the ovens.

Tom was said to hate Sunday school with his whole heart, and yet he was the hero of the story. Just as his Mother wouldn't appreciate Paul's sailors loosing perfectly good grain into the Mediterranean, Peeta very much doubted that Mrs. Jackson would be amused by _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_.

The woman's voice continued. **"Standing in the midst of the sailors and men, who had worked until it seemed as though they could work no longer, Paul called in a clear strong voice—the wind was blowing and he wanted to be sure each one could hear—'Sirs, be of good cheer!'"**

Peeta remembered the last storm that had blown through Twelfth Creek, the day he had seen Katniss behind the bakery. He wondered where she was now. _Is there a church like this one, with a Sunday school, somewhere in the Seam?_ He guessed there probably was, though perhaps smaller, less grand. _But would Katniss be there, reciting verses about good cheer, or would she be out in the woods, scratching to put food on the table? _

For all that he had thought on it—and he thought on it so often, so many nights when he lie in bed nursing his bruises—Peeta could not understand why a good and mighty God could heap so many burdens on the meekest of His flock. Why boys his own age, by virtue of being born to a miner rather than a merchant, went to hell and back each day in the tunnels. Why each winter the bodies would be found in town, emaciated and unmoving, curled up against buildings where warm air might draft down from leaky windows. Why Katniss's father would be sent away and she and her little sister left to starve. _Are these to be understood as trials, as tests of faith?_

"**Those were the first brave words they had heard. Now every man began working again..."**

If there was something Peeta did understand, it was the importance of brave words. Peeta thought of the advice Miss Portia had shared. Of the way that Cal had reached out to him—the first time the brothers had ever _really_ talked. Of the simple letters of his own name scrawled in a book, with all the meaning and possibility that lay behind them. And he felt with every fiber of his being how very much those brave words had helped him, healed him.

"**And when it was day, they could see to the shore."** Mrs. Jackson drew out the final words of the story, slowly closing the book. **"And so it came to pass that they escaped all safe to land."**

As they had since the beginning of the season, they closed the lesson with the winter hymn.

**Winter day! Frosty day!**

**God a cloak on all doth lay**

**On the earth the snow He sheddeth**

**O'er the lamb a fleece He spreadeth**

**Gives the bird a cloak of feather**

**To protect it from the weather**

Peeta found by the end that he was no longer just mouthing the lyrics, and he sang the final lines in as clear a voice as he could put forth.

**Gives the children home and food**

**Let us praise Him, God is good!**

They were brave words, and he would have to have faith that they would prove true.

Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jackson, the students proceeded from the room in reverent and orderly fashion. But as soon as they were out the door, they loosened their collars and whooped and ran. Peeta blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sunshine. He scanned the path for the two identical girls who had been sitting in front of him. He had to put his hands up fast to catch the misshapen ball that Mitchell lobbed at him without warning.

"Hold on, Mitch, there's something I need to do first." He tossed the ball back and jogged off to where he saw the girls. "Be right back."

When he caught up to them, he wasn't sure which pair of shoulders he should tap to get their attention. He pulled his hand back and said, "Hey!"

They spun to face him. _Like mirror images._ No matter how long he had known them, he never ceased to wonder what it would be like to have another person who looked like you, sounded like you, thought like you.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Good Cheer himself," Oona Leeg said warily.

"Oh, hi, Peeta!" Dosia Leeg practically bounced up and down with giddiness.

The expressions on the two freckled, heart-shaped faces couldn't be more different. _Maybe not mirrors. Maybe not thinking alike. _Peeta decided to focus on Dosia.

"I had a question, about flowers, so I thought you might be able to help me out."

He dug in his pocket. He had been hoping for a chance to talk with the Leeg sisters all week, but he hadn't dared bring the treasure to school with so many watchful eyes. He glanced back and saw Mitchell backpedaling to shag a long ball. _Thank you, Bertie._ Peeta unfolded the corners of the wax paper and was relieved to see that the delicate yellow petals had not been crushed or torn by his repeated sitting and standing over the course of the day's services.

"So, uh, I wondered if you might be able to tell me what kind of flower this is?"

Oona held it up for examination, counting the petals and making note of their shape. Dosia huddled close, not to be left out.

"Where did you find it?" Oona asked clinically.

Peeta had hoped to avoid this line of questioning. "In a book, uh..."

"No," Oona said, rolling her eyes. "Where did you find the flower _growing_?"

"I didn't," Peeta answered sheepishly. "Like I said, I just found it already pressed, inside a book."

"It's a primrose," Dosia supplied eagerly, happy for any chance to beat her sister to something since she had been born six minutes the younger, and especially happy to beat her to Peeta Mellark.

"Primrose," Peeta said to himself. _Isn't that her sister's name?_

"They mean—" Dosia interrupted herself with a giggle. "They're supposed to mean 'young love.'"

Peeta swallowed awkwardly, his Adam's apple suddenly too big for his throat.He took his lower lip between his teeth, kicked the pebbles at his feet, pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, and tried not to laugh. He had been curious about the flowers since he had discovered them. He supposed a part of him wondered if maybe they were more than a forgotten bookmark, if perhaps there was some coded message. _Young love?_ It was much too on-the-nose.

Encouraged by Peeta's sudden change in demeanor, Dosia leaned in closer, batting her eyelashes as she had practiced in the mirror on many occasions since Emmaline told her it was something boys liked.

Without meaning to, Peeta stumbled a couple steps back. "Are you all right?" he ventured, concerned. "Do you have something in your eyes?"

Dosia felt her sister pinch the back of her arm and she stifled a cry.

"She's fine," Oona answered for her, continuing to turn the flower over in her left hand. "But this isn't a primrose. It's evening-primrose."

"So, that's some special kind of primrose?" Peeta asked. He was embarrassed by the way his voice cracked at the end. _Stupid voice._

"It's not a primrose," Oona repeated, shaking her head for emphasis. "They're two different families." She directed a pointed look at her twin, whose face was that of a wounded puppy. "And it doesn't mean 'young love,' it means 'inconstancy.' _Evening_-primrose. The flowers blossom very quickly... in the _evening_."

Peeta tried to process the tone of moral reproach in Oona's description. He realized he had been thinking on this for several moments, and that the twins were staring at him, expecting him to say something. "Do you have any of these in the shop?" It was the first thing that came to mind.

Oona looked at him like he had two heads. "Right now? It's the dead of winter."

"Peeta, you're so silly," Dosia laughed gaily. "But, you should come into the shop and see what we have. There may be some mistletoe, still, from the New Year." More eyelash batting.

Peeta squinted in involuntary sympathy of whatever might be bothering Dosia's eyes. _What is she doing? Should I offer to help her? _He was saved when he felt something bean him on the back of the head. "Ow!" A ball dropped and rolled a few feet to his side.

He turned to see Mitchell standing with his hands on his hips, clearly impatient. "I'll be _right there_!" Peeta called. He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair to check the tender spot where a goose egg was just beginning to form.

"Are you very hurt, Peeta?" Dosia looked ready to spring to his aid were it not for Oona's strong grip on her forearm.

Peeta bent to retrieve the ball. "Oh, no. I'm fine." He straightened and took a couple steps back toward the lawn in front of the church where Mitchell and Bertie waited for him. "Thank you for your help—both of you." He flashed a bright smile.

Oona appeared pleased to part ways, but Dosia's face fell in disappointment. _Great, what have I done? Now they're both upset with me. _As Peeta jogged over to join his friends, Cal's words echoed in his head. _ "You're a Mellark... you won't have any trouble meeting girls."_ Peeta wasn't sure if he was ready for all that, not quite yet. It was starting to seem like a lot of trouble.

Mitchell gave a low wolf whistle. "The Leeg twins—well done!" he yelled loudly enough that a few groups of dawdling students stopped and turned their heads. Bertie's laughter echoed across the lawn.

Peeta fired the ball back so hard and fast that Mitchell had to duck to the ground to avoid it.

**XOXO**

Peeta often had vivid dreams. He had since he was very young.

His mother used to blame Bran and Will for getting him hooked on adventure stories. Hilda had refused to comfort young Peeta when he would wake, frightened and crying, and pad to his parents' room. Bran would lift Peeta up into the man's bed and listen as the boy recounted the dream, knowing just how to soothe him when he got to the parts about pirates or dragons or beasts or, once, a pack of wolves that walked tall like humans and chased him through the forest. _"Do you think they wanted you to bake them biscuits?"_ Bran had asked. Hilda had rolled her eyes. _"Don't encourage him by asking questions."_

Peeta still liked to read before bed, if not school books then novels he borrowed from Will. Hilda still scolded him for it, saying it was a waste of lamp oil. But Peeta no longer went to his parents' room to recount his dreams. Once, when he was 10, he had opened the door and seen their beds pushed together. After that, he never in to their room without knocking. But Peeta was also older now, and his dreams were sometimes... _different_ than the ones he'd had as a young boy. There weren't just pirates but also now wenches, not just dragons to be slayed but princesses to be rescued. They were nameless maidens, their faces were always in soft focus, indistinguishable and shiny around the edges. But, without willing it, sometimes girls he knew, girls from school and town, also made appearances. He tried not to think too much on that in the mornings.

Peeta heard footsteps in the hall, coming from his parents' room. He hurried to shut _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_ and tuck it away under his blanket.

_This is ridiculous,_ he thought. _It's a novel. I'm acting like Cal does with his dirty pictures._

But when he saw his mother's face peer around the door, Peeta was relieved the book was hidden.

She glanced around for a moment. "Why are you lying there with the lamp still lit?"

"Saying my prayers," Peeta lied.

"Aren't you a good boy?" she responded offhandedly, but her voice sounded suspicious.

Peeta gave her an angelic smile.

She walked further into the room. "Did you finish your lessons for tomorrow?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Did you lay out your clothes for the morning?"

Peeta nodded toward the shirt and trousers that were folded on top of the dresser. He didn't need her to remind him. It had been his routine for years.

"Tomorrow is Monday. You'll have to get up earlier than usual. You and your father will have much to do in the shop." She looked as though she was debating coming closer, perhaps to tuck Peeta in as she and Bran used to do when the boys were younger. She hung back.

"Good night, then," she said stiffly and put out the lamp before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.

That night, Peeta dreamed that he and Mitchell had built a raft that they sailed to a mysterious island far from home. There were no adults on the island; no one at all but the two boys.

At first, it seemed a paradise. The sun kissed every surface of the white-sand beach. They splashed in the calm waters near the shore. Peeta marveled at the variety and plenty of colorful fish that hid amongst the coral and reached out to stroke the shell of a giant turtle that swam slowly past. The boys built a fire on the beach and traced their names in the wet sand and swung from vines that hung down off the cliffsides.

But as Peeta and Mitchell continued to explore, they found that the island was also a source of terrors. They encountered birds whose calls mimicked human screams. At one point, blood rained warm and thick from the sky. Oona and Dosia were there on the beach, painting one another's faces with it. Strange monkeys came down out of the trees, baring sharpened fangs. Peeta yelled at the twins, urging them to run, but they seemed unable to hear them, as if in a trance. Before he could break it, the monkeys had surrounded the girls. Mitchell had to pull Peeta away.

Running back uphill into the jungle, Peeta and Mitchell somehow managed to escape. They paused among the trees on a high ridge to catch their breath. They could see the raft on the beach below.

Part of Peeta's waking mind fought to come to the surface, to rescue him from the nightmare. His body twisted, his legs caught up in his sheets. But he was too deep in. Still, his conscious mind tried to parry the horrors with good memories. _Frosting cookies with Dad... Crumpet... stickball... sunsets... Christmas dinner..._

Back in the dream world, without any explanation or warning, Peeta suddenly realized that it wasn't Mitchell who was with him, but Katniss. She was wearing the red plaid dress from the first day of school.

A foreboding yellow fog was pouring down the mountainside threatening to envelop them in its path.

"_I want to go home, Peeta,"_ Katniss said, looking unsure of how she had come to be standing there, with him, in the jungle on the unfamiliar island.

"_Trust me,"_ he said and took her hand, pulling her in the direction of the cove where he and Mitchell had hauled the raft ashore. Side by side, they ran toward the beach, feet flying, fog rolling ever closer.

When they finally reached the raft, Peeta collapsed to his knees, breathing hard. He watched the fog retreat. _"We're safe now, Katniss,"_ he panted and stood to push the raft out into the water.

She shook her head and pointed up to the gathering storm clouds. _"I don't think so, Peeta." _His name was almost drowned out by the sudden crack of thunder. Lightning struck a tall tree back in the jungle.

The water was too dangerous now for their voyage, and Peeta abandoned his efforts to launch the raft. Instead, the pair lay prone atop the logs as the winds swirled around them on the beach. Peeta reached out and took Katniss's hand into his, and they hunkered down, holding onto each other for dear life._"We'll set out for home as soon as this storm is over,"_ he promised and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

_Be of good cheer. Be of good cheer. Be of good cheer._ He repeated the words like a mantra, one hand clutching the rope where he had lashed the logs together, the other clinging tightly to Katniss. They waited for what could have been minutes, hours, lifetimes.

And then the tempest ceased just as suddenly as it had begun. With great relief, Peeta and Katniss rose, and stood behind the raft, leaning their weight into it so as to edge it toward the waves, toward home.

Tired and soaked from the storm, each step seemed a marathon. Peeta's legs felt like jelly, and just when he had finally reached the point at which the water begin to lap at his toes, he collapsed, unable to go on.

Katniss paused, holding strong against the tide that now pulled the raft back in its retreat. _"Get up, __Peeta! Get up!"_ she commanded.

He tried to move his legs, but when he looked down, he saw that they had sunk deep into the sand slurry. He pulled at them with all his might, to no avail. He saw that Katniss had begun to strain against the force of the sea, that her arm was stretched taut trying to hold the raft back. Soon it would be adrift, and it would be too late for both of them.

"_Go,"_ he urged her, defeated. _"You can still go home. Go!"_

But Katniss was stubborn. She shook her head. _"Not without you_."

With a mighty shove, she pulled the raft back up from the water's reach. And with an equally powerful effort, Peeta was eventually able to extract his legs from the quicksand. They fell back onto the beach, spent. He could hear Katniss breathing heavily beside him. When he finally recovered, he stood up and fixed his eyes into the distance, on the course home. _"Together?"_ he asked her. Exhausted, they readied themselves to resume the final push. She counted them down. _"One... two... three..."_

But before Peeta and Katniss could give the definitive heave-ho, their legs were suddenly thrown out from beneath them, and they fell hard onto the sand. The entire world was in motion. _The island is spinning! _Peeta gripped at the logs of the raft, legs pulled back by the centripetal force of the earth moving below. He prayed that they both had enough strength remaining to hold fast.

After what seemed an eternity, the ground was still. The air was silent. The water calm. Peeta was relieved to see Katniss still by his side. He pushed himself up on unsteady arms and joined her in looking out to sea. _"Which way now, Peeta?"_ He gave his head an exaggerated shake, trying to regain his balance. _"Which direction do we sail, Peeta?"_ she repeated. The sky was bright, but even after many minutes of searching he could find no sign of sun, moon, or stars. The horizon was an undifferentiated azure. Peeta's heart sank.

Katniss said what he could not bring himself to. "_We can't go home now, can we?" _Her tone was flat, a question that needed no answer. Her grey eyes were as devoid of life and hope as they had been that day behind the bakery.

_She shouldn't have come back for me,_ he thought desperately. _She shouldn't have trusted me._ _I couldn't save her._

"GAH!"

Peeta awoke in a panic. He gasped, mouth gaping wide to take in enough air to satisfy the demands of his fast-thumping heart. His forehead was moist with sweat, and his skinny legs were tangled in the bedsheets. _ Bedsheets. Bed. Window. Dresser. Lamp._ He was reassured to see the familiar surroundings of his house, his room, come into focus. _Just a nightmare. Not real._

He settled back into the mattress, pushing the quilt down to cool his body. Eyes closed, he willed his breathing back to a steady rhythm. One hand drifted up and under the corner of his mattress. His fingertips brushed the cloth spine of the book. _She's safe. Not real. _

He inhaled, exhaled, stared up at the ceiling with dark eyes. When his senses returned to him, he could laugh at the fanciful wanderings of his dreaming mind. Sailing away to an island without any grown-ups... fighting against a dangerous storm... being lost with Katniss, like Tom and Becky? _Mother is right. You let yourself get too drawn in to these stories. _

He admonished himself for having allowed his mind to wander to Katniss when he had read the cave scene. She didn't seem like the type to sleep through all the action. Katniss didn't need a boy to protect her. _She knows how to use a bow and arrow, for goodness sake. _Peeta's own hands had never touched a weapon.

_In a cave, on an island, it doesn't matter—_she_ would probably be the one saving _me_. _This thought brought an unexpected trill of pleasure so new that he was still learning to navigate it. In the darkness, he smiled a crooked, secret grin that didn't leave his lips even as slipped into the depths of a tranquil, dreamless slumber.

Monday morning came too soon, as it always did. Peeta groaned softly when he heard his father rap at the door. Across the room, Cal stirred just momentarily before sinking back into an easy, even pattern of contented snores. Without lighting the lamp, Peeta stepped into the clothes he had laid out for himself the night before. He eschewed a comb in favor of quickly running his fingers through his hair. He grabbed the book on the chance that he might have a few moments to finish it while waiting for the ovens to heat.

"Morning, Dad." Peeta stifled a yawn as stepped off the stairs into the kitchen and headed around to the coal bunker.

Bran Mellark was laying out bowls of flour, sugar, eggs, lard, yeast. He caught his son's attention just as the boy was turning the corner. "Peeta, I need you to make four dozen of your cheese buns this morning." The baker brushed the flour from his hands and brought them casually to his hips. "Your mother and I talked it over, and we've agreed that they should be part of our regular offerings." His eyes crinkled up at the corners. He wasn't sure if anything brought him such pleasure as watching his son so ably take up the family craft.

"My cheese buns?" Peeta asked, surprise chasing sleep from his voice. "Yes, of course! Four dozen!" He knew it was only rarely that new items were afforded a place on the regular menu, which consisted mostly of the same traditional breads and pastries that had been perpetuated by generations of Mellarks before him. And now he, Peeta Mellark, had earned his own place among them. Alongside being the first repeat winner of the district-wide speech and debate tournament last year, it was one of the finest accomplishments of his life thus far.

"And today, set aside half a dozen to share with your friends at school—your mother's orders!" The baker's ruddy cheeks were strained to contain his smile as he conveyed this message.

Peeta could tell that it was supposed to be some sort of mark of his mother's approval, perhaps even her apology for the welt that was just transforming into shiny pink scar tissue. The woman was always on guard against any kind of waste that might cut into the family income. It had taken his father years to obtain her consent to give the stale two-day-old bread to the Community Home. She had only changed her mind out of fear that the Home girls, some of whom were being trained as kitchen servants, might take to baking their own if not otherwise supplied. And cheese buns were considerably more costly than regular bread rolls. _She's probably just hoping that the free samples will drum up business._

The baker caught the way his son's eyes turned stormy. "Be sure Mitchell gets a few," he said, trying to lighten the mood, "and tell him we've got an extra apron waiting here for him when he wants more."

Peeta rolled his eyes playfully and shook his head in mock disapproval. "I don't think Mother would be pleased with the return on that investment."

Peeta set about his regular morning tasks, working at a brisk pace to ensure he would have time to finish the cheese buns before setting off for school. He put extra oomph behind each shovelful of coal. He jogged as he pushed the wet cloth around to wipe the surface of the long counters. He scooped flour with such speed that he kindled a low burn in the muscles of his left arm.

There was nothing he could do to rush the big ovens, though. One summer when the oldest of the ovens had broken down, his oldest brother Will had insisted on fixing it himself. Will had always had a knack for invention and, with input from Bran, he had reconfigured the ventilation system so that it circulated heat more efficiently and required fifteen percent less coal. Peeta observed that the look on his father's face when he had just told him about the cheese buns was the same one Bran had given Will when the young man had demonstrated the new oven system. It really was a brilliant design, but it didn't shorten the initial time it took for the oven to reach the desired heat.

Peeta watched the temperature gauge from a little stool that his father had positioned for him years ago. He was too big for it now, really, the knobs of his knees almost as high as his chest. On countless mornings he had sat in that same vantage, studying his lessons or drawing in his sketchbook or taking advantage of the solitude to mentally prepare for the day ahead. For the past week, he had spent his the time there with the book and, by proxy, with Katniss, who was never far from his mind when he was reading it. He opened to where he had left off the previous day, just a few pages from the end.

"**Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would have got his daughter out of the cave…"**

But as Peeta read, he found his mind diverted, and not just by the need to keep watch on the oven gauge. He kept flashing back to the previous night's dream. To Katniss. To the way they had run alongside one another and pushed together to try to get home. And to the crushing disappointment of having failed her.

_I should have done more._

He needed her, though he didn't entirely understand what that meant. After years of watching her, it was almost as if she had settled into his bones.

_I should have gone out to her, in the rain, with the bread._

And yet, they had hardly spoken. The only time he had said her name aloud she turned and stormed away. _After I pulled her hair. After she called me out for being a liar. _He wanted to die of shame.

_I wonder if she's all right._

Cal had mentioned seeing her at The Hob. He had called her the "squirrel girl", but Peeta knew who he meant. Peeta wondered if she was working there, or maybe selling something. He couldn't ask Cal for details.

_If only I could start over again._

"**...So endeth this chronicle. It being strictly the story of a BOY, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a MAN..."**

What kinds of things might Katniss Everdeen have to say? What other books had she read? What did she think about? Did she like art? Did she still sing?

_Why was she in my dream?_

He wanted to know all these things.

He didn't ever want to lie to her.

He wanted to be her friend.

He hoped she would allow it.

**A/N: The poem that Miss Portia reads is "The Death of the Flowers" by William Cullen Bryant. As many of you probably recognize, the line "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it" is from _Anne of Green Gables _by L. M. Montgomery (1908). In the early 1900s, the National Child Labor Committee sent photographer Lewis Hine to investigate and document working conditions in the mines. The story of Paul that Mrs. Jackson reads, as well as the lyrics to the "Morning Hymn" and "Winter Hymn", are from the manual _One Year of Sunday School Lessons for Young Children_ by Florence Ursula Palmer (1900). The passages that Peeta reads while in the bakery are, of course, from the final chapter of Mark Twain's _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _(1876); emphasis in original. Peeta's dream draws from the arena in _Catching Fire_ as well as from _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _in which Tom and friends are caught in an unexpected storm after "running" away on a raft to an island in the Mississippi River.**

**You may want to brush up on your German for part 4! Thanks in advance to ElsterBird for all of her help preparing the translations.**

**I crosspost at rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) wordpress (d.o.t.) com and rainydaysanyways (d.o.t.) tumblr (d.o.t.) com.**


	7. Mutts

**A/N: Chapter 3, part 4 of 4.**

_In the years prior to WWI, German was the primary foreign language taught in U.S. schools. Big hugs go out across the Atlantic to __**ElsterBird**__ for __devising__ the German phrases in this chapter. __**Translations are provided at the bottom of the page**__._

_Thanks to beautiful tropical fish __**bohemianrider **__for her above-and-beyond beta work. _

* * *

**Winter 1909**

First, the bad news.

They had her treed.

Katniss peered down over the tip of her boots to where the beasts menaced below. _How many times did __D__addy__ warn me about wild dogs? _She cursed herself for having abandoned her bow at the far side of the clearing in that moment of joy when she saw the rabbit drop. They must have smelled the blood while she was draining it.

The good news was that her aim was improving. Her arrow had pierced the hare right in the neck. And she'd had the foresight to shove it in her game bag as soon as she sensed something was amiss. Before she'd had to run.

There were four of them—though she thought she might have glimpsed another pair of eyes skulking around the edge of the clearing. They were all mangy, their fur too thin for winter, hollows visible between their ribs. _Desperate_, Katniss thought. _Like me._

This time the teeth snapped just inches from her heels.

Katniss looked up to the nearest branch that might bear her weight. _Too high._ She loosed her fingertips from their desperate grip on the bark and readied them to move. With a groan she forced her hips up, drawing first her fingers and then her feet a few inches higher on the trunk of the big ash. For a moment, she felt the pull of her skirt on her waist like an anchor from where it must have been caught. She kept jerking her hips until—_riiiiiip!_—the fabric gave way, and she was able to shimmy up another foot or so.

Katniss wished she had a brother from whom she might be able to inherit a pair of pants; her father's would be far too long. It wouldn't be proper, but it would be more practical and surely more comfortable than a dress.

At a safe height, she could only hold fast until the dogs lost interest and turned back to the woods. She needed to distract herself. The ash was all bare grey branches, but she tried to conjure in her mind the symmetry of its silvery leaflets. Her mother used to keep them on hand through the summer. Once, when she was much younger, her mother placed one of the leaves atop a piece of discarded paper, guiding Katniss's hand as she traced the margins of the compound leaf with a nub of charcoal. _What did Mama use them for?_ Prim would know—she was so good at remembering these things.

_Mosquito bites._ She was almost certain it was the ash her mother used to crush up and rub over the itchy red bites she and her father would come home with after early summer trips to harvest katniss roots. _"You have sweet blood,"_ Flora would always say. This would make Katniss stop scratching just long enough to wonder how a person's blood could get sweet in the first place and if maybe it was from eating sweet things like apples and the little wild berries that grew by the stream. She had wondered, too, if people who ate even sweeter things, like the crescent cookie with its powdered-sugar coating, might be even more attractive to mosquitoes.

_Did Peeta Mellark have sweet blood? _Of course, Peeta probably didn't spend much time around ponds and streams. The mosquitoes in town hadn't been nearly so bad since the wet little wasteland behind the old blacksmith's shop had been drained and filled for the new Odd Fellows Lodge.

But it was best not to think of Peeta. That debt had been discharged.

Katniss's fingers were beginning to cramp from curling so tightly around the ridges of bark. She listened as growling changed to yipping and then fell off to just the occasional whimper. Finally, she dared glance down over her boot, and saw that the dogs were gone. By the time she could be certain the pack had retreated, her legs had gone numb from holding tight onto the trunk. They crumpled, coltish, beneath her when she leapt back down to the grass. Her hands were raw and her dress was torn, but she had two doves in her bag, along with the precious rabbit. The Everdeens would eat and, with a good trade, restock the dwindling supply of firewood.

As she made her way home, the game bag heavy on her shoulder, Katniss ran through her lessons for the day ahead. A storm had blown through on Saturday. The big, wet snowflakes were lovely as they fell lazily from the sky, but they soaked her hair and scarf and made it almost impossible to see. Prim had made her promise she wouldn't go back out, so the sisters had spent the entirety of the afternoon and evening bent over their schoolbooks at the kitchen table. When Prim had finished her assignments, Katniss pressed her to work ahead. Katniss did the same, knowing that with better weather she would once again be occupied with hunting. Prim fell asleep with her multiplication tables on her lips—and only occasional correction from Katniss—and a full belly, thanks to that morning's haul of squirrel. When they awoke on Sunday, the snow had already melted away.

Though she still felt the odds stacked against them, it was easier to have hope now, with the sunny yellow dandelions poking up in the fields and the sweet smell of cottonwood buds wafting over from the creek. She had sniffed out the first skunk cabbage blossom of the year in a low, swampy area at the edge of the Hob. Soon the woods would be carpeted with white blooms of springbeauty and saxifrage.

Katniss was moving fast, rushing to get home so that she would have time to stop by the Colliers' before heading to school. She tried to guess at how much kindling the rabbit would get her. Since their father's death, Leevy's brothers had done an able job keeping the family's wood pile well stocked. _I should ask them where they get the big logs and if they'll show me how to split them_, she thought, _it would be good to be able to do it myself. _

She had a sudden image of the bend of her father's back as he brought down his ax, the way he wiped his forehead on his sleeve when he came back up for breath, all the many mornings he labored at the Everdeens' own wood pile.

They were more fortunate than the Colliers, she reminded herself. _One day our daddy will come home._

Katniss always walked softly in the forest. It was something she had picked up from him that had become habit after so many years. This is why the rustle of branches and the crush of leaves underfoot caught her ear.

She paused. The noise continued.

_That's not _my_ foot._

Her hand flew to her bow. Whatever was following her, it was large, much larger than a squirrel or a hare. Whatever—_or __whomever_. Within seconds the arrow was nocked. She was able to locate the direction of the rustling before it went silent.

She hoped it was a deer. A button buck could keep them all fed for weeks. She scanned the rhododendrons for movement.

A flash of tawny hide._ There._

Katniss squinted and positioned herself for the shot.

_No._ It wasn't quite tall enough, even for a fawn. The creature slinked through the low branches. She guessed it might be a cat.

Katniss took a few slow, careful steps back.

A bobcat's pelt could bring good money at the Hob. One of her father's trading partners sometimes had them, prominently displayed among dusty antlers and yellowed plumes. When she was younger, Katniss had always had to hold herself back from reaching out to see just what that lush fur felt like. She had never seen a live bobcat. They were rare and knew enough to stay clear of people. Bobcats were skittish creatures. They didn't usually seek people out like this, not unless they were sick with rabies. Except this one. It continued to press through the thick tangle of the understory, headed right for her.

Katniss tried to steady her arm, though her heart was pounding wildly in her chest.

There wasn't anything her mother, or even the town doctor, could do to treat rabies victims. It was a painful, protracted death.

Katniss would just have to shoot straight.

_Now!_

But she hesitated just a moment too long, and the creature was already coming out from the bushes—

She let the bowstring fall slack.

It wasn't a bobcat.

It was a dog—or rather, a puppy.

The creature's short tan fur was matted with dirt and pine pitch. It walked hesitantly, its front half bowed low. One of its back legs appeared to be injured so every other step came with a back-bending wobble.

It was, Katniss thought, one of the most pathetic creatures she had ever seen. Still, it wagged its tail in a hopeful greeting.

She guessed these were the brown-orange eyes she had glimpsed from her tree. Where was the rest of the pack? Why wasn't it with them now? She glanced around to confirm it was alone. The creature followed her gaze and then—as if they had a history, as if it was the most natural thing in the world—it came to sit attentively at her side.

Katniss dropped her bow.

The puppy looked up to her with the full depth of its big, dark eyes.

Katniss was at a loss.

"Go home!" she commanded. But of course, _she_ was the one with a home to return to. The puppy's ears perked up, but it remained rooted in place.

Katniss turned on her heel and continued quickly down the path, hoping she might lose the creature.

Despite its limp, after just a few moments it had caught up to her and was padding along at her heels.

"Go!" she said again. Then, holding out empty hands, "See? I have nothing to give you!"

She felt sorry for the poor hungry creature. It turned its head to track the motion of her hand as she gestured back in the direction whence they came.

But the pup just folded its front legs down and settled onto its elbows between her feet. It stretched its neck to rest a chin atop her boot.

Katniss looked down at it and huffed, exasperated. "What do you expect me to do?"

After a moment like this, she withdrew her foot—much to the dog's disappointment—and turned her back, continuing on the path home.

Prim was the one always trying to take in injured birds and other hopeless cases. It wasn't that Katniss didn't feel badly about any creature's suffering, but there was something that stopped her from investing herself in the wholehearted way that Prim did. Maybe it was because Prim was so young. Or maybe because Katniss was a hunter and knew the fragility of life in a way she was glad Prim did not.

It was true, Katniss had nothing to give a dog. Especially not a puppy with such prominent ribs and a belly distended with worms.

It was still following her. She could see a tan blur in the corner of her vision when she looked back over her shoulder.

_If Prim was here_, she thought, _she would be ordering me to gather Artemisia. _Wormwood might bring the dog back to health. There was likely nothing they could do about its limp, but the dog seemed to make out well enough. _But even if we could heal it, what then? We don't have any food to spare._

"Go away!" she yelled, putting on a gruff voice and increasing her pace. "Leave me be!"

When the silly thing refused to leave her, she stooped to gather a handful of pebbles. After she threw them, she began to run in earnest, because she couldn't bear to look back again.

Smoke rose from the chimneys of the Seam. It curled up and up until it mixed with the flat grey of the sky. Already groups of boys and girls were starting on the path toward town and the schoolhouse.

At home, Prim was just finishing fastening one of her braids when Katniss walked in the door. At the wash basin, Katniss raked the hog-hair bristles across her fingers until her hangnails stung from the lye soap. She scooped the last portion of squirrel stew into a tin for Prim's lunch, changed into her stiff black leather boots, and shoved her lessons into her school bag. She caught Prim just in time to tuck the wayward tail of her blouse into her skirt before they headed out the door.

Katniss almost forgot one last thing. "Mama!" she called back toward the bedroom. "There are doves on the counter to be plucked for supper."

Their mother hadn't been out much since the storm.

Next door, the Colliers' home was its usual buzz of activity. Katniss could hear the boys arguing over something as she and Prim waited on the porch. One corner of the muslin curtain was drawn back, and Katniss saw Leevy's eyes peering back at them. "You don't have to knock, you know," the girl smiled, as she opened the door to them.

Katniss grinned back. "I'm actually here to speak with your mother."

Leevy stepped back and pulled the girls into the house with her. Her brothers were at the table, shoveling down bowls of cold corn pone and fighting over which one would take the final biscuit in his lunch pail. Prim ignored them and went straight over to little Teddy, lifting him from the wood floor where he was rapping on the lid of a pot with a wooden spoon.

"Mrs. Collier, ma'am?"

The woman turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Morning, Katniss, Prim." There was an edge of worry in her greeting.

Katniss stepped forward. "I came to see if you might have any wood for trade?"

Thirteen-year-old Sam pushed his chair back and stepped forward. "I'm the man of the house," he said, puffing out his chest. "You may speak with me."

Katniss tried not to roll her eyes. She looked to the boy's mother, who gave a curt nod. _I suppose he is now_, Katniss thought, though it would take some time to get used to dealing with the gangly, goofy boy—just two years older than she—as a man.

She stepped toward Sam. "We're in need of wood." She held out the rabbit. "This would be just for now. I can bring more, if you might be able to supply us."

Sam made it clear that he wasn't keen to take on the extra work. Katniss knew he would eventually relent. Like most Seam families, the Colliers were dependent on the Hob. Meat wasn't as pricey as at the butcher or the grocer in town, but it still cost a pretty penny for a family of five. She hoped Sam's lecture on men's burdens would be complete before the tardy bell rang. Luckily, his younger brother Charlie cut in.

"How sure are you that you'll be able to get more rabbit?" Charlie asked.

Katniss turned her focus on him, ignoring Sam's protests. "How do you like it cooked?"

Charlie considered for a moment. "We usually eat it fried, but I like it best in hot pot," His eyes drifted upward, remembering the taste of that dish on his tongue.

Katniss seized the opening. "As soon as they come up, I'll bring the first of the wild ramps for your hot pot."

Charlie licked his lips. "Aw, come on, Sam," he begged. "You know I do most of the woodcutting anyway."

Sam finally relented, and it was settled that a bundle of wood a week—more through winter's end, less after the spring thaw—would be delivered to the Everdeens in exchange for a regular share of game and whatever else Katniss was able to forage.

With that decided, Katniss just had to convince Prim to put little Teddy down if they were going to make it to school on time. She was grateful when Mrs. Collier swooped in. The woman nodded approvingly at the rabbit. "That'll make a fine supper," she said. "Mighty fine."

Katniss nodded. "I'm grateful to you. The night has still got a chill. We've been going through wood faster than I had counted on."

"Leevy?" the woman called, bouncing the toddler on her hip. "Run and fetch that book you set aside for Katniss."

Leevy returned, her hair now tied up in a scarf to keep the coal dust off it at work, carrying a school workbook by its spine.

"This was mine," she explained, "I didn't know it was still around. We found it when we were cleaning out Papa's things. We think he might have been trying to teach himself geometry." Her voice trembled, and she paused to brush away a tear. "If you want it, it's yours."

"Go on," Mrs. Collier said, not making eye contact with Katniss. "You'll save me the trouble of taking it to the Hob and being told it's too marked up to fetch a price."

Katniss recalled that Leevy had left school just after starting Grade 7 when an opening had come up at the mine. In truth, the book was in excellent condition with hardly a mark in it.

"Th-thank you," Katniss said, taken aback by this kindness. "Are you sure there isn't something I could give in trade?"

The woman stared off into the distance. "Mr. Collier wouldn't want it to go unused. He was real tickled by how set your Daddy was on your schooling."

Behind them, Prim choked out a little sob.

Leevy put both hands on Katniss's shoulders. "You could win, you know."

"Win?"

"You won the spelling bee last year, didn't you? And you'll win again this year."

Katniss shook her head, trying to push back against the expectation. "That was luck last year, just the luck of the word I got."

"Nonsense!" Leevy insisted. "You're smart, Katniss. Remember when we used to play school and you were always the one teaching _me_ the lesson?"

At this Katniss smiled. The girls used to pretend the stump out behind their houses was a desk. They would find crows' feathers to use as quills and mash up berries for ink.

Leevy's eyes glinted with determination. "You can win the spelling bee and then win Head Scholar,and show up all those town kids!"

Sam piped up from the bench where he was tightening the laces on his boots. "Katniss? Head Scholar? Ha, she's a girl!"

Leevy smacked the back of his head.

"Leevy … " Katniss said, "I appreciate your confidence in me, but there are a plenty of older boys _and girls_"—she glared at Sam—"who are ahead of me in their lessons. Really, I've hardly had time to study with everything that needs done."

Leevy shoved the book into Katniss's school bag. "Then study!"

Katniss resigned herself to accepting this kindness. "Then thank you again. Truly." Glancing up at the clock on the wall, she realized they risked missing the tardy bell. "We should go! Prim?" The three girls walked to the door.

Mrs. Collins looked up from feeding Teddy. "Give my best to your mother. If she needs anything, I'm here."

Katniss wanted to ask one more question before parting with Leevy on the front porch. "How are things at the mine, after what happened with Young Ray?" Her voice came out as a whisper. It was hard to shake the thought of the company spies behind every tree and around every corner.

Leevy raised her eyebrows. "You know the mine," she said warily.

Katniss felt that she _should_—her father had gone to work there every day, their neighbors all did too—but at the same time, the mine was another world, one she herself had yet been spared.

"There's no reason for you to fret about it," Leevy continued. "Best not borrow trouble." She swatted Katniss playfully on the behind. "Get yourself to school and study so you can win that cup! And then I can say 'I knew you when'!"

Prim was happy to see her sister's usual scowl replaced by a broad grin.

"Is that true?"

"What?" Katniss asked.

"Could you really be Head Scholar?"

"I don't know, Little Duck."

She thought of John Bybee the math whiz and Oona Leeg and Charlie Chisholm from her own class—and, of course, Peeta.

"Will you try? Will you please try to win?"

Katniss was about to repeat her disclaimer about all the other boys and girls, the kids from town families that had the benefit of the enrichment class and a library of books at home. But she saw the way Prim's eyes shined up at her. She thought of the Colliers' generosity and Leevy's hopes for her.

"I'll try," she allowed.

They passed the grove of maples that were just beginning to come alive after the long winter and made their way toward the schoolhouse.

Katniss felt tremendous relief as she found herself enjoying class again. Saturday's storm had been a positive influence on her scholarship. Katniss felt charged with purpose. During American history, she was so eager to share her knowledge of the Lewis and Clark Expedition that she had to fall back to her old system of raising her hand only every other question so as not to draw the ire of her classmates. She thrilled when Miss Portia beamed approvingly at her answers.

It didn't even gall her when Billy Coleman pointed out the tear in her skirt and the streaks of dirt on her tights. When he called her a Seam brat, she just turned up her nose. _I'd like to see the state of _his_ pants if wild dogs came after him,_ she thought smugly. When they were in the Lower grades, Billy had soiled himself on the annual fieldtrip to the mines when the elevator winch had become temporarily stuck. As if in retaliation for the taunting he received, he'd been a merciless bully ever since.

The clang of the bell signaling the noon recess took Katniss by surprise. Had the morning really passed so quickly? She bent to stow her workbook in her bag, keen to begin the next day's lessons over the break so that she would have the afternoon free for more hunting. When Katniss rose up, she saw that a small sewing kit had been placed at the corner of her desk.

_Maybe Mattie Schneider is a kindred spirit after all._

Ensconced in the boughs of her tree, Katniss wondered when the twin rows of fuzzy buds dotting each twig would burst into the curtain of green and hide her from the world below. Perhaps another month, she guessed. It seemed a long wait.

Katniss dug a safety pin from Mattie's kit and worked it through the rough wincey of her skirt. The fabric hadn't ever been pretty—just another item for which her father had probably been on the generous end of a trade at the Hob—but after so much outdoor wear it had weathered to a wan yellowish grey. Katniss didn't worry much over fashion. No one from the Seam could afford such concerns. Still, she affixed and reaffixed the pin in an effort to conceal its bright silver glint. She made a mental note to return the pin and kit the next day.

Katniss was so focused on fumbling to adjust the pin that she didn't notice the boy pacing below her.

Peeta Mellark had been trying to steel his nerves all morning. It was usually so easy for him to talk to people, even girls. He remembered the previous day's interaction with Oona and Dosia. _Well, maybe not _as_ easy to talk to girls. _Being raised at the front counter of the bakery, Peeta had a knack for falling into easy conversation with just about anyone.

But Katniss Everdeen wasn't just anyone.

_What if my voice cracks? What if she __laughs? What is she __leaves me standing here like a fool? _

The last time he had said her name aloud, she had scolded him and run home. Peeta ran his hand nervously through the front of his hair, massaging his scalp, not thinking of how the motion would tease the forelocks into a shock of curls.

_These cheese buns won't give themselves away. You have to say it, Mellark... just say it._

"Katniss?"

No one ever bothered her here. Her head jerked up.

_Blue eyes. Those blue eyes. _She was overtaken by the memory of seeing him behind the bakery in the rain, of catching his eyes through the classroom window.

She pricked her finger on the pin and let out a small yelp of surprise.

Peeta saw her wince and felt terrible for having apparently frightened her.

But she hadn't run. And she hadn't yelled at him. _Not yet._

"Katniss," he repeated, this time with more confidence. "Are you all right?"

She regained her composure, staunching the dot of blood with the pleat of her skirt. She took her sore finger into her mouth for a moment to soothe the pain. It tasted of iron and salt; there wasn't any sweetness to it, really.

_Why is he standing __here__, saying my name? _It was highly unusual for a town boy to talk with a Seam girl. Maybe if her mother worked as their domestic, that might be an acceptable excuse; if last-minute arrangements had to be made, word was sent through the children. Otherwise, their social worlds were sharply divided.

Whatever Peeta Mellark was up to, Katniss wasn't going to let him get the upper hand.

"Not going to call me Carrots today?"

But he wasn't put off by her scowl or the haughty tone. It was what he had expected after their encounter in the maple grove. He would just have to work to show her that he wasn't who she seemed to think he was, that she could trust him.

"Not unless you want me to."

As soon as he had said it, he had realized how bold it must sound. Her eyes went wide. He wished he'd held back and composed something more appropriate rather than allowing his lips to voice the first the first thing that came to mind.

"**I don't believe in calling people names that are not their own**," she said. _O__nly__ my father calls me by a nickname. _"Forgive me," she continued coolly, "but you hardly know me."

Peeta had watched her for six years, unsure of exactly why she had captured his attention. He had fretted over her while he watched her grow thin and desperate. And he had grown desperate himself, some days unsure if he could stand another day at home. Their struggles had brought them together that day behind the bakery. Now here he was with a chance to realize his hopes of knowing her. He couldn't let himself walk away.

"I know I don't know you well," he said, certain she had no idea how much he had thought of her over the years. "And you hardly know me either." He offered up a self-deprecating smile. "But we're talking now—and I really did mean it, when I apologized before for calling you… _that_. I hope you can forgive _me_."

Everything in his face appeared solemn, but Katniss still couldn't understand why he was there talking with her at all.

Her silence was beginning to unnerve him. "We _could_ talk _more,_" he ventured bravely.

Katniss looked around the schoolyard. Peeta's usual group of merchant friends had taken over the front steps of the schoolhouse. They were making a loud show of some game that seemed to involve racing various rubber balls against a small green frog they must have wrenched from its winter sleep. Katniss imagined the boys' surprise if they saw Peeta here, talking with her. _Unless __they've__ sent him over on __a__ dare_, she spectulated. Dares had been all the fashion among the schoolchildren that year. One of the Grade 8 boys had even broken his ankle when he was dared to walk the ridgepole of the post office roof. But the group of boys didn't seem to be paying any attention to anything other than the poor, frightened looking frog. _Maybe that is part of their plan__._

"Don't you already have friends to talk with?" Katniss asked warily.

Peeta laughed. "That's the nice thing about friends. You can always make more."

She took a moment to consider his response. Of course her classmates must notice that she was always by herself or with Prim. She didn't have other friends, save Leevy who wasn't in school anymore.

"I suppose I wouldn't know," she sniffed.

Peeta caught the chill in her tone. He decided not to let it deter him. _Be of good cheer._ He still hoped to share the cheese buns he had packed from the bakery that morning.

"I haven't started eating yet. Maybe we could sit together." His voice cracked this time. He wondered if there was any chance she hadn't noticed.

Katniss was mortified by the thought of sitting with the loud, boisterous group of town boys and perhaps being forced into conversation with Bertie or Mitchell. _You were all in the enrichment class together_, a part of her said, _and you've been dying to know what you've missed. _Katniss was curious if Peeta was still head of the class in mental arithmetic or if John Bybee might have overtaken him. She wondered how she would have stood up against the older scholars. _But you're not in the class anymore,_ another part of her—the more pessimistic side, the side that usually won—reminded. _The townies are sure to ask about that._ She pictured herself underscoring the difference in their circumstances by expertly butchering the frog right there on the steps before them.

"Thank you for the invitation," she said breezily, trying to appear nonplussed, as if she got such requests every day. "But I'm quite comfortable where I am."

Peeta tested his hands against the trunk of the maple. He wasn't much of a climber. There was only the scraggly old apple in his part of town, and his mother had never allowed the boys much time out-of-doors unless it involved feeding the pig or hauling supplies. But he was intent on proving himself to Katniss as someone worthy of her friendship. And Katniss Everdeen spent a lot of time in trees.

Peeta estimated the vertical distance between the branch and the earth. He pushed all thoughts of gravity from his mind. Since Katniss hadn't agreed to come down, Peeta intended to join her. She hadn't forbidden it. _Not yet._

"It doesn't _seem_ comfortable," Peeta called up, "but if you say so…."

His arms were strong, even if still on the scrawny side. He could use them to haul himself up readily enough. The problem was that his large feet couldn't seem to find purchase on the little nubs and knots that Katniss used as steps. The slick soles of his boots slipped, nearly causing him to fall.

"You're making a scene!" Katniss hissed, mortified by the all the eyes now directed their way.

"Then help me out," Peeta panted, struggling to keep hold of his satchel while reaching up to grasp the limb upon which Katniss was so snugly perched.

Katniss reached down and took the strap of the satchel—what else could she do? She realized that the only way the situation could draw any more attention would be if Peeta actually fell.

It took a few awkward swings for Peeta to build the momentum to get a leg up and over the branch. As he strained to right himself, he caught the look on Katniss's face. It clearly said, _You are the worst tree climber I have ever seen._

Even after raising himself into some semblance of a sitting position, Peeta was shaky. Katniss implored him to trade places so he could at least use the trunk for balance. "_I'll_ step over _you_," she insisted, moving easily around him, "then you can just slide yourself over slowly..." Peeta's heart raced as he felt the bottom of Katniss's skirt brush the back of his neck.

Only once Peeta's safety was assured did Katniss remember that she was trying to ignore him.

After a few minutes, he began to feel more at ease. He realized that from this vantage, he could look past the schoolyard, over the building's roof and out toward the wooded hills that ringed Twelfth Creek. _This must be what Katniss sees every day,_ he thrilled._ A__ world beyond school, beyond town._

"I can see why you like it up here," he said finally. "It's quiet."

She looked at him through slanted eyes. "Usually, yes."

The silence that followed was broken minutes later by the sound of his stomach growling. This was his chance. Peeta reached into his satchel and pulled out the fancy white paper "MELLARK BAKERY" bag, the kind that was usually reserved for special orders.

"Cheese bun?" Peeta asked, holding the bag out toward Katniss. "I made them this morning." He tried very hard to make the offer sound casual. Secretly, he feared he might be crushed if she refused.

Katniss was hungry. In her haste that morning, she had packed food for Prim but nothing for herself. She wouldn't have anything until supper.

But Katniss shook her head no, hoping Peeta wouldn't see the way she had to swallow the saliva that was already pooling in her mouth.

"I don't have any money," she said curtly.

Peeta shook his head back at her, uncomprehending. "I don't want you to pay me." He pushed the bag closer to her. "My treat."

She shook her head no. "I don't need charity."

She had already relied on Peeta Mellark's charity once too often for her liking. The last thing she wanted was be to appear like the helpless puppy she had encountered that morning.

Peeta still hoped she might be enticed to change her mind. He had seen enough of Katniss in class to know she was stubborn, and terribly proud. Maybe she would feel more comfortable if he was eating too. Either way, he was hungry. He pulled out one of the cheese buns, tearing into it with his teeth. He chewed slowly, trying to think of his next move.

He was surprised that it was Katniss who advanced the conversation.

"I'm hunting now."

She wasn't sure why she had felt compelled to throw that out. Maybe it was guilt for how ungrateful her previous remark about charity sounded, even to her own ears. Sure, she had given him the book, but she couldn't be certain he even knew it was from her. _I dropped it on his porch and ran_. She knew the proper thing would have been to suck up her pride and thank him and tell him just how much that bread had meant, not just for her but for her family. Katniss didn't think it was a subject she could bring herself to talk about, though. Peeta was gracious enough not to raise it either.

"I heard that," he said when he had finished chewing. "My brother mentioned that he saw you at the Hob. Well, he said 'the squirrel girl,' but I figured he must mean you." Peeta grinned. He licked the last traces of grease from the cheese off his fingers.

Her mouth watered. Jesse Everdeen had never brought home any cheese buns from his trades with the baker—Katniss was certain she'd never encountered that delicious, savory aroma elsewhere—and she wanted one very much. She didn't like to change her mind once she had taken a position on something, but she decided to allow it in this instance. Perhaps if she accepted the offer, Peeta might leave her alone. Maybe her tree was just one stop on Peeta's mission to distribute cheese buns to his schoolmates.

"All right."

"All right?" Peeta's face lit up.

"Just one," she clarified. "I'll share it with my sister this afternoon."

He noticed how her scowl lifted when she mentioned her sister. "Primrose, right?"

"Yes," she said, surprised. "Primrose, but everyone calls her Prim."

"I've seen her with you, when you walk in town."

Katniss recalled how she had been so sure, just a week ago, that Peeta and his family might be plotting to take Prim from her. It seemed so outlandish in hindsight. She felt embarrassed.

"Prim loves the bakery. When we walk by, she always insists we look in the window at the cakes."

Peeta grinned. "I do the cakes. I've been decorating them for about a year now. It's my favorite part of the job."

Katniss was surprised yet again. She knew Peeta was interested in art—he'd made an oil crayon drawing of a sunset once that was the school's entry to a statewide competition—but she had never imagined him doing anything as delicate as painting sugar flowers or piping lattice on wedding cakes.

"I also bake the cheese buns," he smirked, holding out the bag to her again.

Katniss realized that since she hadn't brought a lunch pail, she didn't have anything to carry a cheese bun home in. "Would you mind tearing off some paper for wrapping?"

"You could just take the bag. Really, I can always make more," he joked. But he wished she would take them all. He so wanted her to enjoy them.

Katniss saw groups of their schoolmates, some with faces huddled together to whisper speculation, others just staring, slack-jawed. Even for many of the town kids, bakery breads and pastries were a rare treat. _What must they think of Peeta Mellark sitting here with me, offering up things they know my family could never afford?_

He leaned forward as if to pass her the torn paper but paused when he was closest to her ear. "Katniss, I can see why you would think you can't take it." He spoke in a low voice. "I'll just tell them that my father was repaying you for a squirrel you traded us."

He paused deliberately. "Not that _I_ care what they think."

And then, "All I would _really_ like in trade is for you to tell me tomorrow what you think of the cheese buns."

Katniss wasn't entirely comfortable with how readily Peeta spun falsehoods or the implication that they were now conspirators. "Bun," she corrected. "One bun. And I'm taking it home to Prim."

_But she __did say she would __take it!_ Peeta chose the largest and prettiest of the cheese buns for her. He thrilled at the way their fingertips almost met when he passed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, securing the paper wrapping. "It will mean a lot to Prim."

"I hope that you and Prim enjoy it." _I really, really do._

Katniss expected Peeta to take his leave then. There were plenty of their classmates who would be delighted to share in the cheese buns. But he didn't move.

Peeta had been so focused on planning how he might get Katniss to accept the cheese buns—to speak to him at all, really—that he hadn't thought of what they might talk about beyond that. He knew enough about Katniss to appreciate that she wasn't one for idle chatter. He searched for a topic she would find worthy of discussion.

The silence hung heavy.

After a few minutes, Katniss decided to resort to what she always did in awkward social interactions. She reached into her bag for a book. People usually left her alone when they saw her so absorbed in the pages.

She wasn't paying close enough attention, though, and rather than her own workbook, she grabbed the book Leevy had given her.

She hoped Peeta wouldn't notice. She couldn't pinpoint exactly why she felt embarrassed. Though Katniss loved school and worked hard at it, she had learned to hold her ambitions close. Town and Seam folks shared a contempt for strivers.

She recalled Mrs. Mellark's words. _"Did your mother really expect any different for you, filling your head with airs, keeping you in that school as if sitting behind a desk for a few more years will change anything! You're just like all the others." _

Katniss stared blankly at the open workbook.

Peeta gave a quizzical look. "Isn't that the Grade 7 reader?"

Of course he would notice.

She thought for a moment. "Yes," she said with false confidence. "Miss Portia suggested I work ahead." Katniss knew she was a terrible liar, but she hoped it might sound convincing enough that he wouldn't inquire further.

Peeta was grateful for a topic they could both discuss. "Which subject?" he asked eagerly.

Katniss had flipped to a page somewhere near the front but not so near that it would have Leevy's answers already marked in it. She looked to see where she had landed.

"German," she answered brusquely, wishing that this would satisfy his curiosity.

Peeta peered over at the book. "Present tense weak and strong verbs," he observed.

Katniss hadn't even processed what was on the page. She glanced down. "Um … _Ja._"

In truth, Katniss was excellent in German. When she was young, there had been a patient of her mother's, an older woman of German descent who suffered frequent bouts of gout, who had nothing to offer them in payment. In trade for care and medicine, she had given Katniss German lessons for three years before passing away last winter. As a result, Katniss was almost fluent. Of course, money or even a goat would have been more beneficial for the Everdeens, but Flora wouldn't turn anyone away.

Peeta assumed from the level of the lesson and Katniss's one-word answer that she was a beginning speaker. Over the years Peeta had developed a habit of being perhaps overly self-deprecating in situations in which he feared others might be put off by an uneven balance of knowledge or accomplishment.

"I could help you, if you'd like," he offered, "My mother's mother was from Germany." He tried to minimize his own abilities by attributing his own fluency to good fortune. "I'm so lucky I had that time with Oma now that Miss Portia insists on rushing us through the future participle in three days."

What had always seemed to work to convey humility instead came across to Katniss—for whom Miss Portia's enrichment class was still a sore spot—as bragging. Had Peeta climbed all the way up into her tree to taunt her with everything she was missing? _"I'm so lucky…." Lucky Peeta Mellark. Miss Portia's favorite student._

"How nice for you."

Peeta knew instantly from her tone that things were not going as he had intended. He felt whatever tiny gains he might have made toward earning Katniss's trust slipping away fast.

He rushed to correct her impression. "That's not what I meant." He shook his head for emphasis.

_Get it together, Mellark._

"Katniss." He pronounced her name slowly, carefully. "I didn't mean to crow. I'm sorry you're not in the class anymore. Honest."

He let his eyes rest on hers, so that she might see that he really meant it. He kept them there even after she turned away.

_I've mucked everything up terribly,_ he thought. _She thinks I've insulted her again, and she'll never forgive me__. _He wished he'd just chickened out like all the other days he had resolved to come over and talk to her. _Stupid cheese buns._ He should have listened to his father and given them to Mitchell.

Peeta closed his eyes and arched his head back against the tree trunk. "_Ich hoffe von ganzem Herzen, dass du bald wieder an unserem Unterricht teilnehmen kannst__." _He felt no shame in pouring his whole heart into those words. Katniss wouldn't be able to understand him. He may as well have been talking to himself. It seemed like a lost cause.

Katniss didn't understand, not entirely, not at first. Peeta was using a verb construction she wasn't very familiar with. It took her some time to puzzle out a translation.

Peeta had repeated much the same thing he had said a moment before in English. But there was something deeper to his choice of words in German. He could have phrased it more simply. But he had chosen the more difficult construction, "_Ich hoffe von ganzem Herzen."_

"_I hope with all my heart."_

She thought of the bread, and the hope that it had given her.

Peeta's eyes were closed in defeat, and his forehead rested in his hand, which covered one side of his face. Katniss took her first opportunity to look closely at the small jagged ridge of pink scar tissue that had risen along the cheekbone on the other side. She felt strangely compelled to brush her fingers across it, the same way she might do to comfort Prim. Instead she found the thread she had earlier worked loose from her skirt and twisted it around her fingertips.

Peeta raised his head, surprised to find a pair of clouded grey eyes searching his face. There was a furrow in Katniss's brow, as if she were recalculating the sum of their interactions.

Embarrassed to have been caught staring, Katniss turned away. She pulled the thread from her skirt so tight around her fingers that it bit into her circulation, her purple fingertips bulging grotesquely. The blood had started to pool again in a perfectly round dot where the pin had pierced her earlier.

"Katniss?" Peeta asked cautiously.

He knew from the way he had caught her looking at him, and from her nervous fidgeting now, that this silence was different from the others.

_She understood._

His cheeks flushed with the realization.

"Katniss … " he pressed, though her answer could only serve to confirm his embarrassment. "You speak German, don't you?"

She turned her shoulders back around to face him. "Yes, I understood your Grade 7 German!" she shouted, clearly flustered.

Peeta wasn't sure if she meant it as an insult or a lament. From her pained expression, he guessed probably a little of both.

"You'd like me back in the class," she translated, pointedly leaving out the frilly bits about hopes and hearts and want.

_But why? Why would you care?_

Katniss's grasped for some logical explanation. For any explanation that might push aside the dawning realization—as preposterous as it was—that Peeta Mellark, the baker's son and her chief rival, just might be sweet on her.

It would explain so many things.

_No_, she thought, _there must, must, must be another explanation._

Finally she hit on something. "The spelling bee is coming up. It would be easier for you to keep tabs on the competition if I was in the class," she accused. "You think you might best me this year, and that in winning the bee you'll have Head Scholar wrapped up."

Peeta recalled seeing the same competitive fire in Katniss's eyes as they waited together on the stage at last year's bee. He remembered how tall she had stood, how she had held her chin high and looked out over the audience as if none of them mattered a whit. It was the same expression he had observed in the many times he had stolen glances at her from his lunch table, perched above them all in her tree.

If this was what Katniss called rivals, Peeta decided he would take it. "Will I try to best you this year?" he teased. "I-N-D-U-B-I-T-A-B-L-Y."

Katniss's eyes blazed. Her words were punctuated by the triumph of finally yanking the thread free from the warp, breaking the ply of the fibers. "I assure you, Mr. Mellark, I am up to the challenge."

"Oh, I'm certain you are," Peeta smirked. He felt how close she was to him in that moment, closer even than when he used to sit in the desk kitty-corner from hers or when they stood beside one another as the final two spellers on stage.

The words tumbled out. "You're the smartest girl in the whole school, Katniss."

Her mouth fell open. For once, she had no retort.

The laughter cut across the schoolyard. Oona Leeg stood over her twin, hands on her hips and legs akimbo in an overly dramatic stance. "How DARE you?!" she mocked, to the giggles of the girls in their group. Fingers pointed up toward the tree as the girls' laughter deepened.

Katniss was used to being the butt of their jokes. She could handle being teased for her dirty hair or her threadbare clothes or even for being a know-it-all. But not for this.

Her face burned. She found that she suddenly hated Peeta Mellark for making her look weak.

Katniss began gathering her things, readying herself to flee.

Peeta's heart sunk. He felt terrible for having, once again, caused her pain. "Stay," he begged, "Please. I'll go. I'm sorry about them."

"No," she said, shoving the workbook into her bag. She took the wrapped cheese bun out and, whether to make a point or just out of furor, left it sitting on the branch when she closed up the flap of her satchel.

"I planned to go in early to study anyway," she said, swinging her leg over the branch. "Since I'm only the smartest _girl_ by _your_ estimate, I'll have to plenty of work to do to catch up.

"Katniss …" Peeta began.

But she had jumped from the branch before he could apologize again.

There was more laughter as she landed. Katniss refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing the humiliation written on her face.

Instead, just before running through the crowd of students back to the safety of the classroom, she looked squarely at Peeta, who appeared bewildered. She wanted him to know —and needed the others to see —that he hadn't gotten the best of her.

"_Ich bitte dich, als würdest du mich jemals beim Buchstabieren schlagen,_"she taunted, her accent flawless. "_U-N-W-A-H-R-S-C-H-E-I-N-L-I-C-H!_ "

Peeta worked to string the letters together. He guessed she had meant to insult him, but a dopey grin spread across his face.

If Katniss Everdeen beat him at the spelling bee, he would have no problem with that, just as long as it meant another chance to stand near enough to her to catch the scent of pine from her skin.

When the bell rang, Peeta found that it took several minutes to make his way cautiously down from his perch. _Why is it so much harder to climb down than up?_ He wasn't as practiced as Katniss and wasn't brave enough to jump. He was relieved when his feet were back on solid earth.

Mr. Nichols chided him as he slid into his seat. There were snickers all around.

"Peeta and Katniss sitting in a tree … " Oona's sing-song voice was just loud enough to be audible over the sound of pages being shuffled and pencils sharpened.

Mitchell leaned forward to join in the ribbing. "So when do we congratulate Mrs. Mellark?" He slapped Peeta on the shoulder. "Or maybe we should call you Mr. Everdeen?"

"Oh, shut up, Mitch," Peeta said. But the fact that he didn't issue an immediate and vehement denial of everything to do with Katniss Everdeen served only to confirm the allegations.

"First comes love," Oona continued, "then comes marriage … "

Bertie turned from the desk in front of him. "If Peeta marries that Seam girl, you know what we would call their babies?"

Oona's voice got louder as she came to the final line. "… Then comes Peeta with a baby carriage!"

Bertie was already laughing at his own joke. "Mutts!"

It was a common enough slur in Twelfth Creek. Peeta had heard his own mother use the cruel word on many occasions. Perhaps that was why he reacted so swiftly.

"_Shut up!_"

Mr. Nichols turned to catch Peeta grabbing the back of Bertie's collar.

That afternoon was the only time Peeta Mellark ever sat on the dunce's stool.

**XOXO**

Katniss was too shaken to be any good at hunting that afternoon. But neither did she want to stay home where Prim or her mother—if she happened to be up—might inquire into her pensive mood.

She needed a quiet place.

She ventured into the woods with her bow, though she was too distracted to listen for the slight sounds or watch for the little flashes of movement to which her hunter's senses had become so attuned.

Katniss startled as a trio of fat turkeys flushed from the brush not five feet from her path. Turkeys were too good a quarry to pass up. Somewhat reluctantly, she reluctantly took up her bow. Though she was able to track the birds to a patch of serviceberry, her first arrow missed, wide right, and the startled rafter flew farther than she cared to follow.

She scolded herself. _Had I been paying better attention, we __would be__ eating a nice, plump turkey tonight rather than two measly doves._

Katniss took it as further proof that Peeta Mellark was a distraction for which there was no room in her life.

If she couldn't hunt, she could at least forage. It had been some time since they had eaten watercress, and Katniss had noticed a patch that seemed to be growing well just downstream from the old mill pond and upstream from the piggery. She decided to curve back toward town, happy that this would give her a shorter walk home than going out to the old cabin. Sunset wasn't far off.

When she got to the creek, she sat on the bank and began to strip down to bare feet. She wriggled out of her wool tights and stuffed them up into the toe of her right boot. She might worry about the mud staining her dress, but she couldn't imagine that any stain could be uglier than the yellow wincey itself.

The water was bracingly cold. As she waded in, she felt her breath stolen away. But with it went any lingering thoughts of Peeta's blue eyes, or Oona's impersonation of her, or the note that found its way onto her desk that said, in unmistakably neat penmanship, _"KE + PM?"_ As the pain of the near-freezing water shot through her ankles and up her shins, Katniss focused only on enduring it long enough to scoop up handfuls of green cress for her own family and, if she got enough, the Colliers.

She could stand it not a moment longer and pranced back to the shore. Since her legs were already wet and partially numb, she decided to keep her tights off and use them as a purse for the watercress. The plants dripped through the sodden knit and left a wet trail behind her as she made her way home. The shortest way was through town, but Katniss couldn't allow herself to be seen with bare legs. If she thought the reaction to being seen with Peeta Mellark was bad, the skin of her calves would surely scandalize all of Twelfth Creek.

She made it back just as darkness was falling, sneaking into the Seam on a little-known path that ran behind the main row of houses. The temperature had plummeted and though she walked quickly, her teeth were chattering and her fingers had gone dangerously blue. She hoped that Sam and Charlie had made the promised delivery of wood, because she needed to get herself before a fire, and quickly.

Katniss's fingers were almost too numb to manage the door, but after a few moments of fumbling, it flew open, and an eager Prim welcomed her home.

"You won't believe who was here!" Prim said, pulling her sister inside and helping her to remove first her bow and quiver and then her wet dress. Prim took the quilt from their bed and wrapped it around Katniss's shoulders. The fireplace blazed with blessed heat.

"Prim," Katniss chattered through bloodless lips, "you knew Sam and Charlie were coming. You were with me this morning, remember?"

"No—I mean, yes, they were here—but that's not who I meant." Prim rushed to pour hot water from the kettle into a mug with some wintergreen that Katniss had foraged that weekend.

"Who then?" Katniss felt the heat of the tea radiate from her stomach.

"Guess," Prim prodded.

"Leevy," Katniss offered.

"Not even close!"

Her senses thawed, Katniss caught a whiff of onions and meat, and noted a pot of what she guessed was stew covered and waiting at the kitchen table.

"Mrs. Collier then."

"No, no, no! Katniss, do you really mean to tell me he didn't say anything to you?"

"Who?" Katniss asked, perplexed.

"_Peeta Mellark_, of course! The boy from the bakery."

Katniss spit a mouthful of hot tea across the blanket in her lap.

Prim ran over to slap her back as she gasped and choked. "Are you all right, Katniss?"

Finally, Katniss recovered her breath. "Is this a joke, Prim? What was Peeta Mellark doing here?"

Prim beamed. Clearly she had been looking forward to this moment. "He brought these." She produced a white MELLARK BAKERY bag and a book.

_He brought the cheese buns._ Katniss snatched up the bag. Sure enough, it held a dozen cheese buns—minus the one Peeta had eaten.

"I told him I didn't want them!" she protested.

"But they're not for you," Prim said, "He brought them for me."

Katniss examined the bag more carefully. When she turned it, she saw that one side had been marked "PRIMROSE" and decorated with—she held the bag up to the light so she could make it out—pressed yellow flowers that had been glued to the paper. Katniss vaguely recalled picking the last of the previous summer's evening-primrose from the bushes outside their bedroom window and pressing it between the pages of…. _The book I gave him. I must have forgotten to take them out._

"This is what he brought for you," Prim said, handing her the thin book. It was one of the enrichment class workbooks, the same one that she had from the fall.

_Why would he give me this?_

Katniss opened the cover and found a brief note, written in the same square, even hand as her sister's name on the bag:

"HERE IS WHAT YOU MISSED SO THAT YOU WILL BE CAUGHT UP WHENEVER YOU JOIN US AGAIN."

She recalled the words he had spoken,_"I hope with all my heart",_ and the brightness of Peeta's eyes as he had offered her the cheese buns, and how very near he had been when he leaned close to her.

"It was nice of him, wasn't it?"

Prim's voice jolted Katniss from her thoughts. "Yes, Little Duck," she mumbled. "I suppose it was."

The squab stew wasn't half as good as turkey would have been, but with a watercress salad and cheese buns it seemed like a feast fit for a king. They were every bit as delicious as they had smelled in the bag. Even Flora, who usually didn't eat much even when she dragged herself from bed to join them at the table, ate both the buns on her plate. Katniss closed her eyes as the cheese filling oozed with each bite, melting in a salty, buttery pool in her mouth. It was the richest food she had eaten in a long time. She tried to chew slowly so that she could savor both the flavor and the feel of fat on her tongue. The soft crumb of the bread was perfect for sopping up the end of the stew in her bowl.

When they had each finished the food before them, they leaned back, sated.

"And we still have five buns left over for breakfast and lunch," Prim said dreamily.

"Breakfast," Katniss cut in quickly. "Let's just eat them here at home."

Prim looked confused. "Why? They would be so easy to pack in our pails. And, besides, if we save them for breakfasts, they might go stale."

Flora, who hadn't questioned the buns to that moment, gave Katniss an odd look.

"How did you get these, Katniss?"

Prim looked eager to explain, but Katniss cut her off with a soft kick under the table.

"I traded the baker for a squirrel."

"That was a very good trade," Flora noted. "Even your father never did so well."

Katniss noticed the bag sitting on the table. Before her mother could discover Prim's name written on it, Katniss crumpled it into a ball and gathered it up with their empty bowls. "Too greasy to be reused," she explained, "I'll throw it in the fire."

Prim looked hurt, but didn't challenge her.

"The baker must have been feeling generous." It was a question.

Katniss smiled sweetly. "It was three squirrels, actually. Nice, fat ones."

Flora caught her hand. "Your father would be proud. You take after him, you know."

"I know," Katniss responded simply. Her mother seemed satisfied. Maybe Katniss wasn't such a bad liar after all.

"Your hands are so cold," her mother said, rubbing them to kindle some heat. "Let me heat some water and you can take a nice, warm bath while Prim and I wash the dishes."

A bath was a luxury they could usually only afford every few weeks. Katniss protested, but her mother pointed to the mud on her legs and the dirt under her nails. She let her mother fetch and heat the water and scent it with a bough of pine cut from one of the saplings that grew near the well they shared with their neighbors. Katniss even let her mother comb the tangles from her wet hair as she sat before the fire to dry her skin. The tug of the comb on her scalp felt so good. Katniss let her eyes fall shut as her mother hummed one of her father's favorite songs, the one about the meadow.

"Goodnight," Flora whispered, when she had finally finished. She kissed a yawning Katniss atop the head and went to check on Prim once more before heading off to sleep herself.

Katniss tucked her knees into the top of her pajamas and pulled them up to her chest. She stared at the fire, transfixed by the dying glow of the embers. The balled-up bakery bag had caught fire so quickly. The ashes were carried up the chimney and into the sky above. No trace of it remained. Katniss would apologize to her sister for that tomorrow. She couldn't have Prim unintentionally drawing any more attention to the day's events by taking bakery buns to school, where the other children would be sure to notice them. _I'll just tell her we don't want to cause envy. _Sweet Prim hated to see anyone feeling left out.

Katniss scooted across the floor to where she had hidden Peeta's book under her bag. She inched it out and held it for a moment before opening it. She read the note once, then twice, and again. Each time she was reminded of something new she had learned about Peeta that day.

Whatever his motives might be—and Katniss still couldn't quite allow that Peeta simply liked her and gave freely out of kindness—he had been right in thinking that she would treasure this book. She was able to see, from the questions Peeta had answered and the notes he had made, exactly which lessons the class had covered in her absence. They had begun inorganic chemistry and—as Peeta had said—advanced quickly through German grammar.

But that was not all that Peeta had recorded. Throughout the book the margins were adorned with sketches, little drawings that captured something of the goings-on of the day. An apple on Miss Portia's desk. The clock on the classroom wall, its hands poised just minutes before dismissal. Katniss marveled at how these simple sketches could appear so real. She recognized a sparrow that had flown in the classroom window one early-fall day. The drawing managed to convey all the desperation of its flight as Dosia Leeg try to shoo it back out with a wave of her coat. Each page was something new. Katniss flipped past finely shaded drawings of the baseball Mitchell Clarke had claimed his second cousin shagged for him outside the Pittsburgh Pirates field. There were pictures of the two-headed salamander that John Bybee was charging his classmates a penny to hold—until one of the Lower grade boys had squeezed it a little too tight. Katniss delighted in the memories that came with each page.

But when she got to the picture of the bouquet, she had to set the book down. Queen Anne's lace. It was her bouquet, the one that had been left at her desk the day after her terrible speech.

To that moment, she had assumed it was Oona or one of the others, trying to rub her failure in her face.

But next to the drawing of the bouquet was another scene she recognized: the old mill race where the wild carrot grew thick in the summer. It was all there, just as she knew it, the stone walls that channeled the water and the ruins of the bridge that once crossed it. And the field of umbels rising on their slender stalks.

Katniss hugged her knees tighter.

_It was Peeta who brought me the bouquet. Peeta threw me the bread. Peeta came to my house to give Prim a bag of cheese buns._

She turned the page. There was a picture of her braid. She admired the perfect curve of the plait resting on her shoulder. A few strands were drawn untucked from the rest, curling playfully free.

She had thought her hair rather unremarkable. It wasn't anything like what was described in books as handsome. It wasn't the kind of hair that drew compliments, not like Dosia Leeg's bouncy curls or Mattie's hair, which was very fine and almost white. Of the two Everdeen sisters, it had always been Prim that people noticed. "Such a pretty girl!" women sometimes stopped them to say. No one commented on Katniss's looks. Like her father and all their neighbors, she was just… _Seam_. It wasn't that she thought herself ugly. She just didn't think much about it at all.

Peeta had a good eye for detail. Katniss leaned in closer and allowed her eyes to follow the pencil lines of her hair as they twisted together. The braid draped thick like rope down her neck.

"Katniss?"

She jumped, startled by the intrusion.

"I'm cold …" Prim whined, her voice heavy with sleep. "Are you coming to bed?"

Katniss closed the book.

"Be right there."

She buried it away at the bottom of her drawer and climbed into bed.

It was only a distraction.

She couldn't be friends with Peeta Mellark. She didn't have time for friends.

_Don't let yourself forget,_ the competitive part of her said, _that Peeta Mellark is the enemy._

Because even though there were others who might challenge them on one subject or another, Katniss knew that one of the two of them would be Head Scholar. There was a reason Peeta was Miss Portia's favorite, just as there was a reason Miss Portia had invited Katniss to join the enrichment class. There was a certain quality—some driving force—they shared.

Thinking of Miss Portia made Katniss realize that she hadn't gone over the vocabulary list for class tomorrow. She would have to find time to do it in the morning.

_Head Scholar? Who am I kidding?_

She barely had time for her basic studies, let alone teaching herself the Grade 7 material and catching up to the enrichment class. She began to regret her promise to Prim.

But there were more immediate challenges to face, foremost among them sleep. Katniss would have to rise early again tomorrow—and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on. She tried to close her eyes.

Prim snuggled against her. "Do you like him?" she whispered.

"Who?" Katniss asked innocently, trying not to encourage this line of questioning.

It was Prim's turn to kick her. "_'Three fat squirrels'_?You shouldn'tfib, Katniss."

"Goodnight," Katniss said pointedly, turning on her side and scooting over to create separation between them.

After a few moments, Prim piped up again. "I really liked his drawing of the bird."

"Goodnight, _Prim_."

* * *

**Spring 1909**

She managed to avoid Peeta Mellark.

But more importantly, she managed to keep them fed.

Through what she brought home and what she could get in trade at the Hob, the Everdeens were just able to scrape by.

With time and experience, Katniss became a more proficient hunter. By April, she was able to hit squirrels through the eye with a precision that rivaled her father's. But even though she knew the baker would give her a better trade, she continued to take them to the Hob where she would usually buy cornmeal, flour, lard, soap, and other sundries required for basic housekeeping.

With spring came all the green shoots and sweet roots she knew from her father's lessons to be edible in one way or another. Katniss trained herself to brave the initial bite of the stinging nettle and was rewarded with a steady supply of greens that Flora was able to steam, stew, and even work into hand-pies that packed nicely in the girls' lunch pails. Katniss did good trade in fiddleheads, and the Collier brothers raved about their rabbit hot pot with ramps. She was especially pleased as the long winter silence came to be replaced with birdsong. Soon there were eggs that could be pilfered from nests hidden high in the branches and low in the grass. She was careful take only one from each nest, the way she had been taught.

With the aid of the plant book, Katniss managed to be the first one that spring to bring aniseroot to market. She was frightened at first that she might pick its look-alike, poison hemlock, by mistake. But, as the book said, the smell of aniseroot was unmistakable once you learned it. At the Spicers' stand, Nellie was hesitant to buy it due to the risk involved, but Katniss told her to go ahead and check each bulb. Katniss was rewarded with a fine price. On a whim, she decided she could spare a few pennies for a small bag of Artemesia. She thought of the puppy who had tried to follow her home. Though she watched for him on each subsequent trip into the woods, he never reappeared.

She was glad she had never mentioned the dog to Prim.

Prim was faring well, and that made Katniss feel that all her efforts were worthwhile.

Katniss was pleased that her sister seemed to have gained a solid circle of friends in her grade. She was often invited to join her classmates' birthday celebrations or dine with their families. At first Prim was reluctant to share the details of her visits, not wanting her sister to feel she was missing out. Eventually Katniss was able to convince Prim that such things didn't bother her, that it was all right to talk about what had been served. Having secured her sister's permission, Prim spent the next 20 minutes describing, in intricate detail, her first taste of birthday cake.

"And then," Prim went on, "there is this wonderful thing they call ice cream—"

But the delights of ice cream were lost on Katniss, who was still wondering if it had been a bakery cake and, if so, how it might have been decorated, and by whose hand.

Except for the occasional glimpse in passing on their way into the schoolhouse, she hadn't seen Peeta all spring.

Since the day they had spoken in the tree—the same day he had left her his workbook—Katniss had spent the noon recess inside. It wasn't that she enjoyed being indoors, especially not as the days grew warmer and all the cherry trees and wild plums reasserted themselves in a splendor of pink and white blooms. Katniss only watched through the window, though, as the petals fluttered down around her classmates eating their lunch on picnic blankets spread across the lawn.

Instead, Katniss devoted the noon hour to her studies. At first she had begun working through Leevy's Grade 7 workbook on her own, but soon Miss Portia was tutoring her in the enrichment class material. Katniss hated to cause any extra work for her teacher, but Miss Portia insisted it was no trouble at all. Katniss did eventually convince the teacher that she really needn't share the contents of her lunch every day.

The first round of the spelling bee was the classroom competition. Katniss won handily over Charlie Chisholm, who tried to put an "e" in "colloquy." The two of them, along with third-place Fergus Dunn, would represent Grade 6 in the school-wide bee at the end of the month.

Katniss tried to sound casual when she asked Miss Portia the next day at lunch just who the winners had been for Grade 7.

"Mr. Nichols just told me this morning. It was Oona Leeg and Stanley Patton … and, let's see, who am I forgetting?"

Katniss guessed it was Peeta, though she didn't want to seem too ready to supply his name. Though it was probably unkind of her, she held out hope that it might be someone else.

"Of course!" Miss Portia smiled, suddenly remembering. "Peeta Mellark took first."

_I knew it._

Katniss redoubled her efforts, both at school and at home. There were many nights when Flora woke her from where she had fallen asleep with her head atop her books at the kitchen table. Prim took to sleeping in their mother's room rather than be woken by Katniss coming to bed so late.

Whenever Katniss felt ready to give up, her mind flashed back to the way she had taunted him.

_I can't let Peeta get ahead of me,_ she willed herself.

His cocky words echoed in her mind.

"_Will I try to best you this year? I-N-D-U-B-I-T-A-B-L-Y."_

She couldn't stand thinking of how Peeta would gloat if he beat her. How pleased Oona and the others would be.

Katniss was so focused on studying for the bee and on the day-to-day tasks of hunting that it came as a complete surprise when she woke one day to find her mother already at the kitchen table with a plate of steaming corncakes.

"I wish I could tell you to take the morning off from hunting," her mother said, "but I know you won't do it."

Katniss was thoroughly confused.

"Happy 12th birthday." Flora pushed the plate toward her.

Flora offered to make Katniss the supper of her choosing, though they both knew that there was no "choice," only what Katniss brought home.

That night, they ate soft-boiled duck eggs with more of the nettles. Prim decorated the table with buttercups she gathered from the edge of the meadow.

Leevy surprised Katniss by stopping by after dinner. Longer hours of daylight meant Katniss could spend more time in the woods. Since she spent the evenings studying, Katniss hadn't made it over to the Colliers' house in weeks. She was happy to see that spring had been kind to Leevy. Now that they had made it through the hollow months, Leevy's face was a little fuller and she was beginning to grow curves where she once was gaunt. Leevy was starting to look more like a grown woman—which Katniss supposed, now that she was working and earning a wage, she was.

"Happy birthday," Leevy said, pulling a piece of dark green ribbon from behind her back. "It's from all of us. Charlie made me promise I would tell you that specifically includes him—he can't stop talking about the rabbit you bring in."

Prim insisted on tying it in Katniss's braid right then.

"I hope you like the color," Leevy said. "I pulled it off one of my old dresses before Mama took it to the Hob."

"I like the color very much," Katniss said. She was grateful for Leevy's thoughtful gift, even though she wasn't one for ribbons. "Thank you. Please thank your family also."

"You look pretty," Prim said, pulling the sides of the bow to make them even.

Leevy smiled. "It will look nice for the newspaper when you win Head Scholar."

Katniss rolled her eyes. "I'm sure to have the nicest hair ribbon of all the runners-up."

"You're too modest!" Leevy scolded.

"You study so hard, you'll surely win!" Prim protested, pointing to stack of workbooks balanced at the end of the table.

"I can't imagine that anyone studies harder," Flora agreed. She got a far-off look, and her eyes filled with tears. She said it again. "Your father would be so proud of you, Katniss."

The voice of doubt that nested within her asked, … _But what if I lose?_

**XOXO**

And then, two days later, he was home again and everything in the world seemed set right.

Katniss returned from hunting to the sound of her mother's sobbing. That wasn't anything new. With longer days and warm spring sunshine, Flora Everdeen had made a marked recovery. There were still days at a time when she was back in the bedroom, and nothing Katniss or even Prim could do would draw her back out. On that particular afternoon, though, the crying sounded different.

_Happy?_

The bedroom door was open.

"Oh, my darlings..."

_Daddy. _

She dropped everything and ran to where he sat on the bed.

"My girls," he said, folding Katniss and Prim both into his arms. "How much I've missed you!"

He was thinner than she had seen him before, and his face was spare. His skin was chapped from working outside in the wind and cold. One of his front teeth had been chipped—Katniss wondered if it had happened when the Peacekeepers took him or sometime after—but it was still her father's smile, still the same dancing grey eyes that Katniss herself had inherited.

Flora kissed her husband on the cheek and nuzzled her head against his shoulder.

Katniss burst into tears of joy and relief. She cried big, racking sobs against her father's shirt. "I missed you too."

In her father's arms, with her mother's hand caressing her shoulders and her sister tucked in next to her, Katniss felt a sense of warmth and security she thought had been lost for good.

She awoke early the next morning, as was her habit. Would she go hunting that day? Her father was back. It was his absence that had necessitated her morning hunt. But then, it wasn't as if he had work again yet. Perhaps the two of them could hunt together like they used to.

Her parents' whispered voices carried out from the bedroom.

"We could be there within a fortnight."

"And you're certain of this?"

"Quite certain. The man who told me about it heard it directly from his cousin who is there now. He and his family moved straight from Twelfth Creek years ago."

"Hawthorne … I cannot place the name."

"They were a good family, though they have been gone from the Seam since before you joined it, my dear."

"It will be awfully hard on the girls, though. Leaving school before the year has ended."

Katniss's mind raced at what she was hearing. _Are they really considering leaving Twelfth Creek? Making me leave school and Miss Portia and the Seam and Leevy and the Hob and our woods? Would it be forever?_

"The girls have suffered too much hardship these past few months. I can't bear to think what the three of you have been through. But things will only be worse if we stay. There's no chance of me getting work at the mine. And you—don't you wish for a fresh start, love?"

"I suppose it would do me good. I haven't been myself since—since the baby. Maybe if I got away from this house, I might not be so haunted by it. Though I don't know what I would do with myself in the wilderness."

"There are other families. The Hawthornes have three children. I'm sure there will be need for a healer."

"But what about you? What if you are injured in the woods without any proper doctor around? There's only so much I can do! Is it safe?"

"Safer than the mine? At least I will breathe fresh air and see the light of day."

"If you are so set on it, then yes. Yes, we will go."

There was a long pause before Katniss heard her mother's voice again.

"You know I could not bear to be without you. I would follow you anywhere, Jesse Everdeen."

"Thank God for that," her father said. "Because I already signed the contract."

Katniss felt her breath catch as she heard her future decided.

They didn't go hunting that morning.

Instead, over a breakfast of leftover squirrel that Katniss had shot and dry rolls that Katniss had traded for at the Hob, her parents broke the news that the family would be heading west. Jesse had gotten a lead on a job cutting big trees out in Oregon. They were looking for no-nonsense, hard-working men._ Family men_, his contact had stressed. Men like Jesse Everdeen.

"You're going to_ cut down_ the woods?" Katniss was incredulous, thinking of the trees in Twelfth Creek that were her refuge. Sure, she knew where her firewood came from. But cutting a tree here and there seemed different, somehow, than the kind of logging that took out entire groves.

"They're nothing like the woods here, Kat," Jesse assured her. "The forests of the West are thick all the way from the mountains to the sea, with so many big trees you couldn't even count them. As soon as you cut one, there's another to take its place. They're how our woods might have looked hundreds or even thousands of years ago, before man came to build homes and cities and railroads. Imagine that!"

By Katniss's logic, that only made logging them more tragic. She glumly picked at the stale roll.

Prim's lower lip began to tremble, warning all that tears were forthcoming. "I don't want to leave my friends," she sniffled. "I'll-I'll-I'll never s-see them a-again!"

"Darling, I know. You'll still be able to write them any time," Flora said, stroking the girl's back. "They won't forget you."

"There will be other families," Jesse said. "You'll make new friends before you know it."

"What about school?" Katniss asked.

Her parents looked to one another. They had been preparing for this.

"There's a school there in the camp," Jesse assured her. "It will be a shorter walk than the one you have now."

"You and Prim will be together in the same classroom," Flora added cheerfully.

Katniss took a moment to process this.

"You want us to move somewhere with a _one-room schoolhouse?_" She hoped she had misunderstood.

Her parents looked to one another again.

"You can still do courses all the way through high school, Kat," her father assured her. "I checked with three different people to be sure of it."

But this didn't reassure her. Katniss's heart sank. It seemed settled. They were really leaving.

"When?" It was the only thing left to ask.

Her father mistook her question for eagerness. "We can leave within the week. As soon as we're packed and able to secure the tickets."

Prim sobbed anew. "B-b-but what about the b-b-bee?"

"The bee?" Jesse asked, puzzled. "What do you mean, Duckling?"

"K-K-Katniss's bee," Prim moaned. "The sp-sp-spelling bee! The one she's worked so h-h-hard for!"

"Kat made the bee again?" Jesse lit up. "Good girl!"

"Yes. It's in two weeks," Katniss said flatly.

"C-c-can we stay, just two more weeks?" Prim begged. "Katniss is going to be Head Scholar!"

Katniss cut her off. "I'm not, Prim."

"But you were…."

Jesse's face fell. "I'm sorry, Kat. I know how much it means to you."

_Do you?_ she wondered. It wasn't like last year, when her studies were her main priority. She had kept the Everdeen household running all winter. Had kept her mother from starving herself. Had kept Prim out of the Home. She loved her father, and she was so grateful to have him back, and safe, with them. But she needed some acknowledgment of just how hard the past few months had been. Her father was home, but it wasn't the same home he had left.

Jesse felt Katniss's disappointment in every fibre of his being. He hated that he didn't have a way to fix it. "There's nothing I would like more than to see you up on that stage, Katniss. But I had to borrow the money for our tickets from the company. The longer it takes us to get out there—every day that I'm not working—I owe that man more in return," he explained. "It's not like how we do things here in the Seam. I didn't just sign away my reputation if I don't make the full payment on time."

Katniss noticed the trouble that gathered behind her father's eyes as he considered the possibility.

"I don't think Coriolanus Snow is the kind of man I want to owe anything to."

**XOXO**

It was scarcely a week before almost everything they would take with them was packed away in trunks. The house was empty, save the few items the Everdeens hadn't been able to sell and would leave for the neighbors.

Her goodbye to Leevy was cut short, as little Teddy was fussy and Charlie kept interrupting to ask questions about cowboys and Indians. Katniss thanked Leevy again for the book and the ribbon, and for being the very best friend she had other than Prim.

"Friends? I've always considered you a sister," Leevy said.

The girls hugged, and Katniss promised to write.

"I don't have anything to write about!" Leevy pre-empted. "I'll just be happy to get your letters."

"Take care of yourself," Katniss said. "Don't let Sam get too big for his britches."

Leevy got in a quick swat to her behind. "Don't you get too big for your britches either. Don't forget about us Seam folks when you're off at your fancy college, sipping tea with the Vanderbilts!"

Katniss laughed. "Serving tea to the Vanderbilts, more likely!"

"Nah," Leevy said. "You scowl too much to be hired as a domestic."

Saying goodbye to Miss Portia promised to be no easier. Katniss put it off until the last possible moment. She waited until the other students had left at the end of the day so that she wouldn't risk crying in front of them.

She took a deep breath. "Miss Portia, I need to tell you—"

"I heard."

Katniss was taken aback. "You did?"

"Primrose's teacher told me on Tuesday."

Katniss felt guilty for not having said something sooner. She hoped that Miss Portia wouldn't interpret her delay as any slight toward their relationship. She opened her mouth to apologize.

Miss Portia cut her off before she could begin.

"No goodbyes from you, Katniss Everdeen. I won't hear it."

"You won't?"

"I can't have you making me cry, dear." Miss Portia smiled. The corners of her eyes crinkled up mischievously. "If word got out, I would have to make a show of crying over all my students."

Katniss felt a deep sense of relief at the joke.

"No tears!" Miss Portia demanded.

"No tears," Katniss promised.

"Miss Portia," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I can't tell you how much your support has meant to me this winter. I-I don't know what I would have done without it. I can't thank you enough."

"Katniss, dear, it has truly been my pleasure to teach you, and I am so happy to know that when you leave my classroom, you will go out into the world to do… anything you dream of doing, Katniss! I don't say that lightly. I know the darkness of the world. But I also see such as spark in you."

Katniss's heart swelled. _Does she really think I could do anything? _The world suddenly seemed fresh with possibility.

"I've broken my own rule!" Miss Portia declared, wiping her eyes. She went to her desk to fetch a handkerchief.

"Miss Portia?" Katniss asked, before she had to go out to meet Prim.

"Yes, dear?"

Katniss hesitated, the idea just taking form and almost too new for words.

"Do you think I might make a good teacher?"

Miss Portia didn't hesitate a moment. "Yes, Katniss. I think you would make a fine teacher."

Katniss exited the schoolhouse—_her_ school—for the last time. She was pleased to see not only Prim, but also her mother and father, all waiting for her under the broad limbs of her tree. The four of them walked home, hand-in-hand, like the girls used to walk with their mother when they were very young.

There was one other person Katniss felt she owed a good-bye to, though she didn't know how to go about it.

She had saved out the workbook from the trunk she and Prim shared and was keeping it in her pillowcase until she decided what to do with it. It would be silly to take it with her. Come fall, she would be in a new school with a different teacher and different books. It was possible it might fetch a small price at the Hob, but surely it would be wrong to sell a gift. Besides, she would be embarrassed for anyone else to see some of Peeta's drawings.

While Prim slept, Katniss slipped out from the blanket they shared, pulling her pillow with her. She found a pencil in her school bag. Squinting before the glow of the embers in the fireplace, Katniss flipped through the drawings at the back of Peeta's book. The Christmas tree in the bakery, decorated with dozens of gingerbread men. A pig with a wreath of flowers around its neck. Miss Portia's hand as she wrote on the chalkboard.

The final page remained blank.

Katniss bit her lip, trying to think of what exactly she should say. She didn't know what to write to Peeta any more than she would know what to say to him in person. They had scarcely spoken all spring, and really only once before that.

But he was more than a rival, she allowed. He had saved her life. So much had passed between them, unsaid. He deserved something, some message of recognition.

She didn't know what to say. So instead of words, she drew mountains. Instead of goodbye, she wrote a river. She filled the page with trees, tall pines like her father had promised her. And below, in loops that curled like the edges of clouds, she wrote, "OREGON."

Katniss didn't need her father's hunting jacket this time. She made sure to step over the loose boards on the porch so they wouldn't alert her parents to her movements. She ran through a night alive with cicadas and fireflies and the sweet scent of honeysuckle. Past the apothecary shop. Past Sheriff Cray's.

All of the windows in town were dark. It was too early yet for even the bakery. She put the book near the back entrance and left it to chance that Peeta would be the one to find it.

Katniss turned toward home—or what had always been home. Ripper's husband was bringing the carriage to take them to the station at nine o'clock, and then they would board the train to go west. She was tempted to take one last lookat Twelfth Creek. At the bakery and the scraggly apple tree where she had sat just months before. How long those months had felt.

Some things were best forgotten.

**XOXO**

"S-T-E-A-D-F-A-S-T. Steadfast."

It only took five rounds for Peeta to be named the victor of the Twelfth Creek School spelling bee. When he had heard Oona leave the "a" out of the first syllable, he knew the title was his to claim.

But it was an empty victory. He shouldn't have won—_wouldn't _have won—if Katniss had still been there. "Steadfast" was such an easy word.

Peeta was named Head Scholar of all the Middle grades classes at an assembly on the final day of school. A reporter from the newspaper told him to stand very still while a photographer made a picture of him holding the tin cup that commemorated the victors. Peeta felt tremendous pride when he saw his own name etched there, on the same list as his brother Will. Peeta's former teachers—and some he didn't even know—came forward to congratulate him. They all asked after his parents, and Peeta hoped his response wouldn't betray his worry. They had said they would be there, yet hadn't seen them among the audience.

Mitchell was organizing a game of stickball in the schoolyard, but Peeta begged off, insisting that he needed to check in at the bakery. It was unlike his parents to miss an engagement. His father had said how much he was looking forward to it just that morning as they were shaping loaves.

Peeta sensed trouble as soon as he stepped inside the bakery. A mixing bowl with dough sat, uncovered and overproofed, on the counter. A box of colored caster sugar had been knocked to the floor, spreading a trail of sparkling blue crystals across the tile.

A lump formed in Peeta's throat. There was a part of him that wanted to run, but he couldn't. This was his home. Even if he ran, he would have to return eventually.

"Dad?" he called.

He heard voices from upstairs. He paused on the landing, his hand on the doorknob.

"How could you do this? After all I've done for you, everything I've sacrificed and given to you! _A mutt?!_"

"Hilda—" His father's voice sounded weary, as it always did when he tried to calm her.

"Ungrateful … I should have left _you_ to the Home!"

"She said—" It was Cal.

"She's a lying Seam whore, _don't you see that?_ Are you _that stupid_? Answer me!"

Peeta turned the knob and stepped into the room in time to see his brother take a slap across the mouth. Cal didn't even flinch. He just calmly wiped the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. It streaked red across the cuff of his sleeve.

Peeta cringed. The edges of his vision went bright and blurry, and his heart began to race. He felt his father's hand pushing him back, felt something being pressed into his hand.

"We're out of dill," Bran Mellark told his youngest son, as if it were the most natural thing to say in that moment. "Go to the grocer's and see if you can find any. If they don't have it, see if you can get Mrs. Leeg to sell you some fresh from her garden."

Peeta stood frozen for a moment, wishing there was something he could do to step in on his brother's behalf. Peeta had learned how to distract his mother and redirect her anger toward something outside the room. But it only worked if he caught her at just the right moment.

"Son, _go_," his father insisted.

He could still hear them as he descended the stairs.

"It is up to _the mother_ to take responsibility for her bastard! _Not us._ You don't have any proof it's yours!"

"He looks like me."

Then, another sound sent Peeta's heart into overdrive. He stumbled toward the front door of the shop.

"He looks like_ any_ merchant! You happen to be the one stupid enough to fall for it."

He knew his mother wouldn't want neighbors and customers to hear the family's troubles. He took a moment on his way out to flip the sign on the door to say "CLOSED."

Peeta didn't want to go to the grocer's. He didn't want to go to the florist's to find Mrs. Leeg. He didn't want to risk running into any of his classmates in town.

He didn't want to keep putting on the face that said everything was all right.

He was there before he realized where his feet were carrying him.

This wasn't the first time he had gone to Katniss's old house since the Everdeens had moved. He had tagged along with Cal on a trip to the Hob when their regular order of salt hadn't come in to the grocer. Peeta had tried not to let his gaze linger too long as they passed that particular house. Everything had been removed. Even, it appeared, the curtains in the windows.

The Hob. He remembered a pretty, plump-cheeked market girl who had seemed eager to fill Cal's order. He wondered if perhaps this was the "she." Could his brother really be a father? Cal was 18, and he had a position in the bakery. Though Cal's prospects were better than many in Twelfth Creek, he still seemed ill-prepared to be a husband and parent.

Peeta hoped that Cal loved her, whoever she was. He knew the pain of a marriage borne out of desperation, an arrangement based on need rather than love. When he thought of that future for his brother's son, Peeta felt the world was crashing down around them all.

It wasn't the first time he had been to Everdeens' empty house, but it was the first time he really felt they were gone.

He picked up a stone from the path and threw it with all the force he could muster. It hit the cornice of the roof and bounced off into the bushes on the side of the house.

Peeta noticed that the bushes now had tall stalks crowned with yellow flowers. He walked over to examine them. _Primrose_, he thought. Then he heard Oona's voice correcting him. _"Evening-primrose."_ The bright, cheery flowers seemed like a fitting namesake for the little girl.

He wondered if they had evening-primrose out West. He chose the largest, most colorful stalk and broke it off to press it in the book. If he had Katniss's address, he could send it to her in an envelope through the post in case she ever got homesick.

Peeta found places to wander. He ambled through the meadow and along the edge of the woods to the mill race. He didn't get back to the bakery until after sunset. He put the coins his father had given him in the same drawer where they kept the ledger. The dough had been put away. Not a trace of the sugar remained on the floor.

Upstairs, he could hear hushed voices from his parents' bedroom. This was how it always was after a fight. His father would be up all night trying to talk his mother down, comforting her as if she were the one with the bruises. Maybe there was love in that, Peeta allowed, though it wasn't a love he thought he could understand.

Cal wasn't in the room the boys shared. It wasn't unusual for his brother to come home late. But Peeta just had a feeling that on this night, and maybe others after, Cal wouldn't be back.

Knowing he was alone, Peeta took the book from its hiding place beneath his mattress. He flipped to a page somewhere in the middle. Where he had stopped, Tom was stepping forward to take the punishment for Becky over the torn anatomy book. Peeta arranged the yellow petals in a piece of wax paper he had brought from downstairs and held the flowers carefully in place while he turned the page. Before he shut the cover of the book, he took out Katniss's drawing, which had been torn from the workbook and placed here for safekeeping. He couldn't be certain how long he stared at it.

When he closed his eyes that night, he was grateful for the vastness of the sky that stretched to unseen horizons, for the stars that were the same for him as they were for her, wherever she was.

It was unlikely, he knew, that their paths would ever cross again. Still, he wondered if they had spelling bees in Oregon. He hoped with all his heart that they did.

**End Part I.**

* * *

**A/N: **

"**I don't believe in calling people names that aren't their own"** _is a line spoken by Marilla Cuthbert in AOGG._

**German translations:**

Ich hoffe von ganzem Herzen, dass du bald wieder an unserem Unterricht teilnehmen kannst. = _I hope with all my heart that you'll soon be able to join our class again._

Ich bitte dich, als würdest du mich jemals beim Buchstabieren schlagen. = _Oh come on, as if you could ever out-spell me._

Unwahrscheinlich = _unlikely_

_Thanks again to _**ElsterBird**_ for these translations._

_I appreciate all the interest in the story and all of the readers who have put it on alert/favorites and taken the time to leave reviews. Thank you for your enthusiasm and feedback!_

_I crosspost on __**AO3 **__and at _**rainydaysanyways **(d.o.t.)** tumblr** (d.o.t.) **com.**


	8. West

**A/N: **_Thank you so much, dear readers, for your patience through this winter and fall. Thanks to all who have encouraged me and shared their thoughts on the story. I am so grateful for the careful eye and wise counsel of my beta, __**bohemianrider**__. There is a glossary of logging terms to accompany this chapter available on my tumblr (URL: __**rainydaysanyways**__, tag: __**#SFWHOW**__). _

_Now, without further ado, we begin __**Part II**__._

* * *

**Spring 1909**

**Camp 7, Oregon**

Gale Hawthorne could hardly believe his luck.

Not only had he been entrusted to borrow the horse and wagon but he had been excused from an entire day of school to discharge what his father told him was a very important task.

Gale tried to keep these words in mind as the sorrel mare jaunted down the road from Camp 7 past Lostine toward Enterprise and then the new station at Joseph.

Along the roadside, the river swelled with the freshets that tumbled down the hills and ran like ribbons through the pastures. Were this any of the other spring days when he played hookey, he would clamber down to one of the rocks set into the riverbank to stalk the pink-cheeked steelhead that should be homing back from the sea. But Gale didn't have his pole today. His mother had the foresight not to let him leave the house with it, and besides, he needed to prove to his father that he was responsible enough to take his place on the crew when the time came.

Gale folded a sticky plug of snoose into his cheek, and fought the temptation to stop just to count the black-flecked fins amidst the riffles. Knowing the trout were running thick would only make it harder to be cooped up in the schoolhouse the next day.

Gale had promised he wouldn't skip class any more, but maybe if he proposed a fishing trip as a way to welcome the new boy to Camp 7 his mother might be persuaded. His father had suggested this boy might like to see a bit of the country.

What did school matter anyway?

Gale wasn't aiming to be an inkslinger. His father worked for Snow Lumber. All the men he knew worked for Snow Lumber. And Gale had always known he would join them. He dreamed of the day he would be issued his own pair of caulk boots and line up at the cookhouse for breakfast. A lumberjack needed to know how to heft an axe, how to keep his forearms from going numb from the vibration on the handle, and how to bend his back with the action of the crosscut saw. He needed to be able to spit and curse and get his digs in behind the foreman's back. He would work twelve-hour days without complaint through the heat of summer and the frost of winter.

What could a schoolmarm teach him about any of that?

By the third hour of the journey, his bottom was bruised from bouncing against the wooden seat. Gale allowed himself a break to stretch, counting the fish while looking in the river. They were speckled and fat, their tails working hard to fight the swift current. He brushed the too-long fringe of inky hair from his eyes. Gale could just make out flashes of silver among the roots of an overhanging willow. They would have fine fishing tomorrow.

When the train sped past, shaking the earth and trailing a cloud of steam behind it, Gale was caught unaware, skinny calves half-submerged where he stood barefoot in the river. He almost choked on the plug of tobacco. _Blazes!_He must have lost track of the time.

Gale struggled to toe his way up the mud-slicked bank of the new channel. It had been cut steep the previous year when the river was straightened to put the rail line through. He slipped a few times before making it back up to the road, and the knees of the Melton-wool trousers his mother had laundered for the occasion were streaked with dirt.

Gale gave a lick of the whip, ignoring the protest from the axles as he drove the mare harder to chase the train. If his charges were to say anything about having to wait, Gale's father might change his mind about asking the foreman to hire him as whistle punk for the summer. The boy in that position had to be reliable, his father admonished, for the men's safety depended upon him.

He passed through Enterprise at a trot, barely slowing for merging buggies.

By the look of things when he arrived at the train station, Gale was, indeed, quite late. There were no other carriages waiting to meet passengers, no trunks stacked along the siding, no travelers milling about the spittoon out front.

A family of four shouldn't be difficult to find, and yet Gale didn't see any sign of them.

He sprang from the cart and almost yanked the station door off its hinges in the rush to get inside. Other than the mustachioed agent at the ticket counter, who looked upon Gale's muddied breaches with evident disapproval, the station was empty.

"Sorry," the boy muttered, walking back out and around the side of the building, hoping to find the Everdeens waiting in the shade under the eaves.

But they weren't there either.

Perhaps it wasn't his lucky day after all. He tried to conjure the taste of his mother's apple cake, knowing he might be forgoing it for some time.

Gale tried to figure out where the new family might be. They wouldn't have found another lift up to camp. Maybe they weren't even on this train. Perhaps they missed a connection along the way, or changed their mind and stayed back East.

If so, Gale pitied them.

But there was a figure on the platform, a girl in a yellowed dress clutching a carpet bag to her lap. She sat atop a beat-up trunk, guarding a meager pile of canvas duffels. She had neither gloves nor even a cheap straw traveling hat, just a crown of dark hair that fell in a braid down her back. The hand that was not upon the handle of her bag was raised to her forehead, blocking out the sun as she gazed up toward the mountains.

There were supposed to be four Everdeens, Gale had been told: a man, his wife, a son, and a daughter around his brother Rory's age. Though she was slight, the girl before him was certainly too tall to be just nine years old. And she was alone.

Gale was about to write her off and go back to the horse when she stood and turned toward him, her expression wary but expectant. Cautious grey eyes—almost the twin pair to his own—searched his face.

"Are you a Hawthorne?"

Gale cocked his head to the side, considering the girl's olive skin and the jut of her cheekbones. It was uncanny; her features were so similar to his family's that she might pass for a sister or cousin.

"Are you an Everdeen?"

The Hawthornes had left Twelfth Creek when Gale was so young that it was nothing but a hazy memory of his father's anger, his mother's anxiety, and the grit of coal dust blackening everything in the house. Despite being born in the Seam, he had lost any connection to that place the moment his lungs took in the Oregon air, all astringent pine tempered with the sweetness of cut hay.

Meeting this girl was like seeing a ghost. Surely that was the reason for the buzz now surging through him—that and the fresh wad of dip he had just tucked under his lip.

The girl muttered something almost unintelligible, and Gale realized it must be her name.

"Catnip?" he tried to repeat, his tongue having to work acrobatics around the ooze of black chaw melting against his teeth.

"Katniss," she said more assertively. "Katniss Everdeen."

Surveying her attire, Gale realized there was no need to worry over the mud at his knees. The girl's dress, which could not have been pretty to begin with, was practically black at the hem with ash and dirt. She had been on the train a week at least, cramped in second-class accommodations, making due with hot potatoes and sandwiches hawked at the station stops. No wonder her face was wan.

"My father asked me to wait here for you, though I was beginning to believe you wouldn't come."

Gale sucked in his cheeks, gathering the saliva in his mouth to spit while he tried to figure out how to handle her. He had to play down his tardiness before she got on about it in front of her father—if her father was indeed with her.

As if she could read his thoughts, she said, "When you didn't arrive to meet us, Daddy went down to check the shops. Mama took Primrose to the necessary to wash up."

The girl seemed to gain confidence. "I figured if you didn't come we might be able to pick our way along that ridge there." She pointed out to where craggy peaks rose almost straight up from the grasslands of the valley. "Then we'd head northwest until we came across a road leading to camp."

Gale had to admire the soundness of her logic. But he was stuck on something. _Primrose?_It was an unlikely nickname for an older brother. And no boy of twelve or thirteen would be caught dead having his mother accompany him to the necessary. Were there three children then—Primrose, Catnip, and the boy? Gale grew worried. The wagon was barely large enough to hold five people plus the luggage, and six would surely be too many.

And who did this little girl think she was, anyway, to be planning routes through the mountains? She must have read too many Deerslayer stories.

"You wouldn't make it five miles," he warned. "There's bear, mountain lions, rattlesnakes. More likely, though, you'd freeze to death. The temperature drops low at night in the high country."

The girl looked unimpressed. "I know how to strike a spark from flint. There must be pine needles we could heap over us for warmth while we slept. And I've run across bear before."

Gale rolled his eyes. Surely she was just putting on a brave act. She probably overheard such talk from the menfolk at home.

A brown stream of spittle landed not far from the girl's boot. "Where's your brother?"

"Brother?"

Sometimes Gale couldn't believe how dense girls could be. The girls at school often played dumb too, fluttering their eyelashes and acting as if they couldn't puzzle out simple assignments without the assistance of whichever boy they happened to fancy that week. Not that Gale wasn't willing to offer help, to certain girls at least.

But the girl before him wasn't batting her eyelashes. "You must be mistaken," she insisted. "I have no brother."

Two figures emerged from the station lobby, a fair-haired woman holding the hand of a girl whose cheeks were pink from scrubbing. If this was Mrs. Everdeen, Gale observed, the elder daughter took little from her.

"Maybe not a brother," Gale conceded. "But a boy, I was told, a year or two younger than me. A crack shot with a bow and arrow, from what your dad told mine. Said the boy was eager to learn to track elk and set snares."

She had gone taciturn, though, and Gale got no response.

The woman and the little girl were now looking down the street, probably for Mr. Everdeen. The girl waved to them, indicating that their driver had arrived.

One of the canvas bags thudded against Gale's ribcage, apparently her signal that it was time to begin the task of ferrying the luggage—dreadful small amount of it there was—out to the waiting cart. She must be impatient, and he supposed he couldn't blame her. He never liked to spend more time in the city than he had to. He preferred even the dauntingly open flatness of the valley ranches to the gridded streets of town with their false-front buildings.

The bag slung over his shoulder, Gale bent to test the weight of one side of the cabin trunk. He stuck his other hand out to take the handles of the carpetbag, but the girl shook her head no, preferring to carry it herself. _She's a stubborn one_, he thought.

Gale tried again. "Boy … about my age … hunting. Does any of this ring a bell?"

"Except the part about a boy, about whichyou are mistaken_, _yes."

The girl took up the other side of the trunk in spite of Gale's protests. She strained to lift the handle high enough to keep it level, Gale being a head taller than she.

"The rest of it," she huffed, "is me."

Gale tried not to drop the trunk on his foot. If she was joking, she certainly had an odd way of it. And if she was not joking, well, that was odd too.

As they shuffled together to navigate the brick walk with the weight of the trunk balanced between them, Gale managed to sneak a glance in her direction. There was something in the steely way her mouth was set, or maybe the flintiness of her eyes—cool grey but with a kind of fire behind them—that told him she was telling the truth, as far-fetched as it might seem. A girl archer, a huntress … this was the one described to him as being able to shoot a squirrel clean through the eye with her arrows? It sent another confusing rush of warmth flooding through him.

_Blazes_, he thought, regarding her expression out of the corner of his eye.

_That's just how I look when I scowl_

**XOXOX**

**Spring 1913**

"I don't want to marry you, Gale … just so you know."

Katniss wriggled to get the Melton trousers over her hips, hurrying to cover bare thighs. Her fingers flew to fasten the fly.

She glanced back over her shoulder to be certain he was keeping his promise not to look.

Gale Hawthorne's eyes were fixed on the nub of pine that was getting progressively smaller in his hand as he whittled away one end, waiting on her.

"Cripes, Catnip," he sputtered. "I don't want to marry you, either!"

Katniss smiled at the use of her nickname, an old misunderstanding between them that had stuck. "Good."

She stepped out from behind the white fir where she had stashed her skirt and slip. She tried to smooth down the front of the pants—sized for a boy, of course—and pushed aside the uncomfortable thought that the extra fabric had fit Gale.

Katniss's gaze flitted to where her friend's fingers curled around the length of wood. Gale was two years older, no longer in school with her. His skin, naturally that same shade of olive as hers, was now tanned and rough from outdoor work. Gale had always been tall but, almost overnight it seemed, his shoulders had grown broad and his arms cut to the shape of new muscles.

Katniss owned that her best friend was handsome enough, but she didn't want to notice his chest or his arms or the fit of his trousers. Not in the way it had been insinuated she might.

"Decent?" Gale asked, interpreting her lack of response to mean it was safe to turn around again. He handed Katniss back her bow, taking a moment to process the sight of her in his old trousers. "Not a bad fit."

Katniss grinned, surprised that he had remembered the story about her wishing for a brother's pants to borrow when she was young.

"You're certain they won't be missed?" she checked. "Your mother won't mind me roughing them up before Vick has the chance?"

"Consider it your gift from the Hawthornes." Gale glanced back toward the white clapboard schoolhouse. "C'mon, let's go."

Katniss made one last effort to camouflage her schoolbag amongst the needles in the hollow of the tree.

It was too fine a day to be stuck inside. Besides, it was her birthday.

The schoolhouse was at the edge of the big flat that marked the bounds of Camp 7, making it easy for them to slip away, their figures soon dwarfed among the pines. The friends settled into their old comfortable rhythm as they climbed into the hills above the camp.

Katniss had to adjust her step to quiet the _sweep sweep sweep_of the trousers where her thighs brushed against one another. But she was thankful for the protection the wool afforded her calves as they waded through thickets of bracken.

It seemed like ages since they had gone hunting.

It had been easier when Gale was still in school—not that he had been _in_school much. Gale didn't see the point in books, and Katniss had run out of arguments to convince him otherwise. With each passing year and each new teacher brought in to run the one-room schoolhouse, Katniss found herself swayed to Gale's position.

There were no other girls Katniss's age to keep her company, either. The older ones were married, or cared for brothers and sisters, or took work in the cookhouse. Hardly any of the boys attended classes past fifteen, at least not regularly. They were born to be woodsmen and, like Gale, left school as soon as Snow Lumber would hire them on.

Most days she finished her lessons early. With nothing to do, her eyes would wander to the mountains that crowned on the distant horizon. Her ears would will the soft whistle of the four-note signal that she and Gale had devised.

She glanced over at her hunting partner, noting the shadow of a beard. She hoped he wouldn't grow it long in the same style as the other jacks. That would make him seem impossibly old to her.

They crossed through the cut-over patches near the camp, past stumps of Douglas-fir, grand fir, and larch. Much higher and the meadows would still be under snow, but the lower slopes were flanked with stands of sedge-grass and clover that should draw game.

Katniss breathed the intoxicating, citrus-like scent of the Doug-fir. If she took home nothing else, she would pluck some of the tender new tips for the sachets and medicinal tea her mother made. Katniss preferred it even over the sweet vanilla notes of ponderosa pine.

Doug-fir was the very essence of Oregon. It was the lumberman's prize, growing in vast stands where fire or wind had knocked back the moribund old growth and opened the land to light. They grew tall and fast, giants of the valleys and lower slopes. Katniss marveled at the size of their trunks, so broad it took two men balanced on springboards to fell them. Here in the northeastern corner of the state, the trees weren't half as big as the redwoods and cedars of the Pacific coast, or so the more worldly of the timber tramps boasted. To Katniss, though, they still seemed colossal.

The hunting partners stopped at their usual resting spot, an unmistakably long bench of rock that Katniss had earlier identified as tonalite. (Gale had given her a terrible time for packing her geology textbook everywhere with them that year.) The contents of Gale's rucksack spilled on the quartz-white rock as he sorted it all: cordage, wire, canteen, and other odds and ends. Katniss took a few moments to examine the fletch of her arrows; they had been stowed away, unused, for some time.

Katniss looked east to the valley stretched below them. It was vibrant green from the meltwater trickling down from the mountains. Barbed wire carved the land into hayfields and pastures, all connected by road to the railroad depots. Narrow-gauge tracks were even being extended up into the mountains so that Camp 7 could send out more and bigger logs to feed the new mill at Joseph. From this vantage, they could make out the streets and buildings of the small farm town of Lostine, a few miles from camp.

Strings of wire danced from Gale's hands as his fingers twisted them into snares. It was not Katniss's preferred method of hunting, but it was an effective way to catch the hares and martens and other creatures whose furs still brought a good price in town.

This time she would let Gale keep anything they didn't eat tonight, despite the arguments he would surely make about it being her birthday.

Though he hadn't told her outright, she knew Gale was saving to apply for a cabin of his own. The Hawthorne home was loud and cramped. Gale complained that they always bumped elbows at the dinner table and that, despite being a grown man, he still shared a bed with ten-year-old Vick.

Hazelle Hawthorne wouldn't permit her son to apply for a bed in the bachelors' bunkhouse. This was something of a relief to Katniss. Not only were unmarried girls and women not be allowed to visit there, Katniss secretly shared Hazelle's concern about the influence of rough company. It was known in Camp 7 that Flora Everdeen was a healer. Enough of the young men had come to the Everdeen cabin complaining of burning, dripping pricks to give a good sense of how they spent their time and money.

Katniss's fists contracted involuntarily as she remembered Sheriff Cray. Nothing like _that _would be tolerated in Camp 7 itself. Mr. Snow ran the company town with a firm hand. He expected the strictest adherence to Christian virtue. But such dictums didn't prevent the men from seeking their vices elsewhere.

Katniss would be crushed if Gale's name was ever linked with the ruffians who went to the city "to get their teeth fixed," as was winkingly said. _He wouldn't, would he?_

Even boys her own age bragged about taking girls out to the slashpiles to neck.

Such a coupling had recently forced one of Katniss's schoolmates into a hasty marriage with one of the young fallers. If word of the girl's condition had gotten back to Mr. Snow with the girl in question unwed, her father would have been dismissed and the entire family turned out.

At least the pair, Twill and Thom, seemed well-suited. Katniss doubted such good could come for Gale with the cookhouse girls who were always so eager to serve him.

Not that she wished to have any claim on him in that regard.

Gale finally had enough of the odd way in which Katniss suddenly seemed to regard him. He could see her watching him out of the corner of her eye, turning her head when he glanced up from his work.

He cleared his throat, gathering the readied snares into his hand. "So uh, what's this marriage talk about?"

Katniss was embarrassed that she had brought it up in the first place, and more embarrassed to be caught still thinking of it now.

"Oh, just nonsense," she mumbled. She pulled the strap of her quiver back over her head, flicking her long braid free. "You know how people talk."

Gale snorted. "I was raised in Camp 7. I've heard plenty of tall tales."

He tossed her an apple pilfered from the cookhouse, and drew another black wad of snoose for himself. They walked, their boots shaking the dew from the fescue.

On the surface, the silence that followed was typical of their time as hunting partners. They had long ago learned each other's nonverbal cues. But in all the ways that mattered, it was entirely different. The air felt heavy with it.

Katniss blamed Clove Marvel.

She would never have said anything if Clove hadn't planted the notion, like a sliver that worked its way under her skin and began to fester.

_"Have you heard the real reason Miss Venia won't be back in the fall?" The foreman's daughter paused to enjoy the moment when all the girls looked up from their lunch pails, their conversations gone quiet. "Apparently, Miss V has been seen in town with McGarrigle, the log driver."_

_Heads bent to whisper. Old Man McGarrigle was an odd bachelor who kept a shack down by the river. He had been among the men who floated logs to the mill before the railroad came. He might have been dashing in his day. It took considerable grace and athletic skill to balance atop the logs as they went downriver. But his day was long ago; the man had to be at least twice their teacher's age. _

_"Yes, Waltzing McGarrigle, the old catty-man!" Clove confirmed, "Can you believe it?!"_

_Katniss looked up from where she filled her cup at the hand pump. She crossed to the edge of Prim's group, her usual place in the schoolyard now that Gale was gone. Though she tried not to get entangled in the younger girls' melodramas,Clove Marvel provoked her._

_"When have we ever had a teacher stay more than a year anyway?" Katniss asked matter-of-factly. As the oldest, she felt some duty to discourage gossip. "The reason matters not."_

_Clove ignored the interruption. "Mother says they'll marry as soon as school lets out." She giggled. "Do you think they'll take a honeymoon float down Hell's Canyon? Perhaps they'll make it to the ocean by fall."_

_A couple of the girls snickered. Katniss frowned._

_"If it is true," Prim mused, nibbling at the graham-bread crust of her sandwich, "I hope the next teacher likes singing. Miss Venia never has us do any music."_

_"I hope the next teacher doesn't smell like split-pea soup," little Bonnie chirped. "And I hope she's pretty. At least Miss Octavia was pretty."_

_Clove nodded. "Miss Venia is dreadfully tall and skinny."_

_"What does it matter if a teacher is pretty?" Katniss scolded. Her dear Miss Portia happened to have been handsome, but Katniss knew she would have loved her no less if the teacher had blue hair and tattoos across her face._

_"It's so much easier to work hard for a pretty teacher than a plain one!" Bonnie protested, as if this logic should be self-evident._

_"Of course it wouldn't matter to you, Katniss," Clove announced, "since you won't be here in fall."_

_Katniss, who had begun sipping her water, nearly choked. All eyes were upon them now._

_"Oh? Why wouldn't I?" Katniss shot back._

_Though Clove was barely older than Prim, she put on all the airs her father's position allowed her in the confined company of the camp. Only Katniss ever challenged her—something Clove did not forget._

_The foreman's daughter smirked. "Gale Hawthorne got his place on the crew."_

_Katniss felt the burn surge up into her neck, her cheeks, her head. Her hands squeezed tight around the cool surface of her tin cup._

_"Gale earned his place." She counted a few beats, trying not let her temper get the better of her. "His employment status is nothing to me, whatever you may think."_

_Clove was all false innocence. "But you are aiming to marry him, aren't you?"_

_Bonnie, Twill's sister, giggled nervously._

_Katniss wished she could shove Clove's pointy face into a tree, but Prim's hand was on her shoulder to hold her back. "I've never even considered such a thing."_

_Clove's mouth screwed up into a twisted smile. "Really? I would have thought you'd spent enough time alone with him by now to know how you'd get on."_

_Furious, Prim snatched the cup from Katniss's lap. "Oh, hush!"_

_The water was still cold from the well, and it caused Clove to cry out when the whole cupful of it splashed into her face. She sputtered and shrieked, turning to Bonnie for aid._

_But Bonnie only stared back in shock, pudgy hand covering her mouth, as the water dripped down Clove's hair to soak her blouse._

Katniss might have laughed. But instead she began to worry that maybe Clove wasn't the only one who saw their hunting trips this way. Clove was just a schoolgirl; Katniss shuddered to think what kind of talk Gale might hear from the other loggers.

Gale was a chokesetter now, his job to attach cables to felled logs so they could be moved out with the steam donkey. He couldn't have gotten the day off without making quiet arrangements for someone to take his place. Katniss wondered what excuse might have been more widely offered for Gale's absence. Bad food, perhaps, though none who had sampled Hazelle Hawthorne's cooking would believe it. _What might they be saying about us, maybe in this very moment? _Katniss would be mortified if anything crass was ever suggested in front of her father.

When the Everdeens first arrived in Camp 7, people thought it sweet the way the older girl tagged after the Hawthorne boy on trips into the mountains. The pair of them, tawny skin usually dirtied from some great adventure, would bring back belts of squirrels that they traded to the camp cook for doughnuts and pudding. That little Katniss Everdeen stalked the woods around the camp with bow and arrow was one of the more charming eccentricities of logging camp life.

But at sixteen, she was no longer a little girl—if she could even have been considered one at twelve. It had been a dark winter before they came West.

She didn't need to hunt in Camp 7. There was always an abundance of grub at the cookhouse and beef year-round at the commissary. Mr. Snow had an empire of valley ranches that supplied the company's camps scattered throughout the Wallowa and Blue Mountains. Wild game added variety to their diet and could be traded to offset the family's scrip, but their survival didn't depend upon it, not the way it had in Twelfth Creek.

Though logging camp life could be rough, so long as her father was working, Snow Lumber would take care of them.

The cookhouse served the men's breakfast and noon meal. The company issued tools, and rented cabins, and provided buildings for the schoolhouse and church meeting hall. Mr. Snow didn't want short stakers, so the men's wages were always just higher than the other outfits offered. Mr. Everdeen's pay was sufficient to keep his family housed, clothed, and shod, and the larder well stocked. They still had to be economical, of course, but there were occasional treats: sweets and a sewing kit for Prim, new arrows and books for Katniss.

Mr. Snow encouraged his men to marry and raise their children in the camp. Family men were good, honest workers with strong values. Their character was a testament to the kind of new society that was could be built in the West. The company patriarch expounded on it each year at the summer picnic he hosted for the Camp 7 residents.

Katniss tried to imagine Gale—most certainly with a beard—wrangling a gaggle of children onto a blanket to be photographed sharing ice cream and chicken salad out in front of the cookhouse.

Her curiosity finally won out. "Do you think you ever will?"

Gale was concentrating on the placement of a snare amid a reddish bunch of pinegrass. "Ever will what?" he asked absently.

She felt embarrassed again and resented him making her spell it out. "You know, get married."

Gale's eyebrows shot up. "Not to you," he grunted. "But we've already covered that."

"Hrmph. Obviously."

While Gale worked on snare, Katniss practiced drawing her bowstring, the muscles of her arms and back straining slightly to stretch into position. She nocked one of her arrows, taking aim at a bulging burl on a Douglas-fir about thirty yards away.

"Guess it would be nice to come home to a hot meal and a bath at the end of the day," Gale said finally. "And someone with softer knees and elbows than Vick." He rose back to his feet, looking on as Katniss steadied her bow.

She snorted. "How romantic, Gale. You're a prince."

Katniss let the arrow fly, gaze following it eagerly on its path. It was only practice, but her eyes still crinkled in triumph when the arrow hit.

Out of habit, both partners stalked off to retrieve it.

"Like you are," Gale taunted, digging in his back pocket to retrieve his tin of snoose.

Katniss, who was already thinking of how nice it would be to have rabbit for her birthday supper, missed the reference. "A prince?"

"Romantic," Gale corrected, rolling his eyes. "You say I'm not romantic but you're the least romantic person I know."

The arrow was lodged in the bark of the tree at such an angle as to be just out of her reach. Katniss pressed her palms against the trunk for balance while she stretched up onto her tiptoes to grab at it.

"Who needs romance?" she breathed, fingertips just able to brush the edge of the cedar shaft. "Oregon women have the vote." She swatted Gale's hand away as he reached easily to grip the arrow. "Soon we'll do everything a man can do."

The hand in his pocket brushed reassuringly against his bulge. "Surely not _everything_."

She didn't acknowledge him. The arrow was frustratingly near at hand. She kept trying to stretch taller, extending her shoulder and reaching as high as her body would allow.

Gale stood back on his heels, arms crossed over his suspenders. If she insisted on doing this herself, he knew well enough not to interfere.

Grateful once again for the pants, Katniss sought a grip for her fingers in the deeply ridged bark, and began to climb. The arrow wasn't that high, and she wouldn't have to climb far. Still, she hadn't done this in a while.

"Careful," Gale warned. He spied what looked like it could be a widowmaker lodged among the higher branches.

Katniss ignored the trembling of her unpracticed fingers and held tight with her thighs. Finally brandishing the arrow, she crowed, "You see that, Gale? I got it."

"Never said you couldn't," he called up.

"I can take care of myself." Katniss jumped back to the ground. "I'm quite capable, you know."

"Yeah, capable of scaring off the game with your bellyaching." He dipped back into the tin for another rub of tobacco.

She shoved his shoulder, almost causing him to spill the contents of the tin onto the dirt.

"Hey now!" He pushed her back playfully. "That's at least fifty cents there!"

As they continued walking, Katniss twirled the arrow between her fingers idly, so distracted by her thoughts that she wasn't even really watching for signs of game. Most people would say she was a quiet girl, but Katniss had plenty of opinions. She just couldn't speak as plainly in the camp as she could in the woods, when it was the two of them.

"It's like these pants..." she began. "Why shouldn't girls be allowed the same comfort and freedom of movement as a boy?" Her voice grew more impassioned. "Skirts, dolls … it's all training for marriage!"

Gale thought of his parents. Sure they argued over the usual things, but they still laughed together and stole kisses when they thought the kids weren't looking.

""I don't see why you think marriage is so terrible," he said.

Katniss was almost frightened by the depth of her parents' love. In her father's absence, her mother had been nearly swallowed up by grief. But as dangerous as that kind of love might be, Katniss had seen enough to know that it was rare. So many wives were treated as drudges—worse off than the domestics back in Twelfth Creek who at least had the right to claim the nights for themselves.

She and Gale were so close in all their other views, that it was infuriating that he didn't see her side on this one.

"It's different for girls," she implored. "How would you like to have someone always telling you what to do? Expecting you to cook his meals, and mend his shirts, and to wash the stench from his long-johns after he's spent the past week bucking logs in them?!"

Gale couldn't understand why she was suddenly so worked up. "I doubt our mothers feel they're being ordered around," he chuckled. "But maybe you can ask them tonight. That would make for a festive party."

He turned his head to spit, though he had a hard time of it because he kept smiling. "You know, Catnip ... you might find someone you actually like one day."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't patronize me, Gale. You wouldn't say such a thing to Rory."

"Wouldn't have to," he muttered, thinking of the dopey way his brother always acted around Prim.

Katniss knew just what he meant.

She had seen the way her baby sister looked at Rory, like he hung the moon. It was the same way her mother looked at her father. Prim never contradicted those who teased that the two would one day be a pair.

Katniss bit down on her lip, fighting the lump forming in her throat. "Oh, Gale!" she sighed. "**Why do people have to grow up and marry … and **_**change?**_"

Gale stroked the stubble on his chin. He hadn't expected her to be so rattled. He stayed quiet for a long time, brow knitted as he tried to think of what he should say.

"Here," he finally managed, his hand holding the open tin of tobacco in her direction.

She looked at him in disbelief.

"You're sixteen now, Everdeen. You want to be a man? This is the first lesson."

He knew—she told him often enough—that she thought snoose was a filthy habit. So he pinched off a wad of the moist tobacco and shoved it into her palm. "C'mon. Don't think about it."

For once, she didn't.

And then her only thought was that it was the vilest taste imaginable. It was worse than moldy biscuits, worse than rat meat, worse even than the rancid oil she had once gotten too cheap the Hob. It released into her slaver, flowed with it, burning her tongue and flooding the back of her throat. She gagged.

Gale clapped her on the shoulder, grinning.

Alarmed and unable to think of anything but to get it out of her mouth, she swallowed.

Her stomach hitched.

Without warning, Katniss bent and heaved the contents onto Gale's boots.

She expected him to be angry, but instead his shoulders were shaking, his lips pursed to hold back laughter.

"Not bad," Gale finally assessed, lifting his feet out of the puddle of vomit. "Certainly more impressive than Rory."

Still doubled over, Katniss spit to expel the last stubborn bits of dip from the caverns under her tongue and the crevices between her teeth. She wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand, noticing the alarming tingle in her lips.

He had known this would happen. He hadn't warned her, and now he was laughing at her. She beat a fist against his chest.

"I never said I wanted to be a man," Katniss fumed, "you … pompous ass!"

"Swearing and fighting," Gale approved. "Lesson two. You're a quick study, Catnip. At this rate, we'll have you unmarriageable in no time."

"Shut up, Gale."

He reached to pass her the canteen of water from his rucksack. "Gladly," he agreed.

She accepted it with a scowl, and they settled back into a companionable silence.

It was fortunate that her stomach had settled by dinner for the table was spread with some of her favorite dishes: her mother's stew with dried plums, a soda bread with orange peel and raisins from a recipe Bonnie had taught Prim, green beans the way the cookhouse made them, and pears canned in syrup. Hunting had been slim; they snared just a single hare. Nonetheless, everyone insisted Katniss get one of the thick hind legs, which had been dredged in buttermilk and pan-fried the way Greasy Sae, the former camp cook, used to do it.

With ten people in the small cabin, they made an indoor picnic of it, the adults on chairs and the children cross-legged on the floor. Katniss wasn't sure where she belonged, but Gale made her trade with him so that she had a place at the table.

He teased her. "Can't have you spill stew on that pretty skirt, Catnip."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

In truth, she would rather be among the circle on the living room floor where Vick was trying to catch his brothers' attention as he reenacted the events of Jim Thorpe's Olympic pentathlon victory, and Prim was bouncing little Posy on her lap. Gale made a game of trading his clean plate for Rory's unfinished one when the younger boy wasn't looking.

Katniss sat between Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne. Hazelle peppered her with questions about school and her plans for the upcoming break. Her mother had seen some new styles in the latest Sears & Roebuck catalog and suggested a trip to town to pick out fabric for a summer blouse. Katniss answered politely and tried to appear appreciative.

Otherwise, talk at the table centered on the men's work. Jesse Everdeen and Pat Hawthorne had recently been selected for the engineering crew charged with bringing in the new Lidgerwood Cableway machine. It was a point of pride among the lumberjacks of Camp 7 that it would be the first of the Snow Lumber camps—and maybe the first in this part of the state—to adopt the steam-powered overhead skidder.

Flora Everdeen was relieved that her husband would, for the summer at least, have the less dangerous work of setting up machinery and laying the narrow-gauge track on which it would be moved. Logging was barely better than mining in that regard; several of their neighbors had lost limbs, or worse, mostly in skidding accidents when logs rolled unpredictably or hands were caught in cables. Jesse hoped that there would be fewer accidents with the new system, but Pat was wary of unproven technology.

"Modernization for modernization's sake," the bear-like man dismissed, picking his teeth with a rabbit bone.

"We could have done for a little modernization in the mines…," Jesse began.

Soon Gale had joined them, pacing the narrow aisle between Katniss's chair and the wall, arguing intently all the benefits of the latest innovations.

Pat's deep baritone boomed through the cabin. "We all know you're eager to get the highclimber spot setting the spars for this beast. Your ambition suits you, son, but think of the other men! Your own crewmates could be put out of work. Look at what the rail has already done to the log drivers."

Now Gale had his hands on the back of her chair, his voice growing louder as he tried to make his father see his view.

"The world is changing, Pa! None of us will have work if we don't keep up with it. By your logic, we'd still be using oxen!"

Katniss could feel him leaning over the top of her head and shrank a few inches into her seat.

Hazelle noticed and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Who wants cake?" she asked breezily.

"Excellent idea," Flora agreed, rising to fetch the apple cake the Hawthornes had brought. Posy jumped from Prim's lap to run into the kitchen.

The cake—moist and dense with bits of apple and more spice than Hazelle's everyday cakes—returned them all to the occasion.

"Will you begin putting your hair up, now that you're sixteen?" Hazelle asked as she handed Katniss a plate. "Or maybe wait a year or two?"

Prim called out before Katniss had a chance. "I've already tried to convince her, and she insists no!"

Everyone watched Katniss open the gifts from her parents: a fountain pen, a used copy of Ben-Hur for her fledgling library, and a Hershey's chocolate bar. She broke the candy into five near-even pieces to share with the younger children.

"Thank you, Mama and Daddy." Katniss said, admiring the gilt starburst on the book's cover.

"There's one more gift for you, Kat," her father said.

"Two more!" Prim interrupted.

"Two more," he corrected. "Very wrong of me to forget, Prim."

He passed Katniss a flat burgundy box, long and narrow and hinged on one side. It looked fancy. She turned it over in her hands, handling it with all the care and delicacy required for a baby bird. It had a gold-lettered mark from a company in Enterprise stamped into the leather.

By her father's side, her mother was already wiping tears. Jesse's face lit up like a jack-o-lantern. He wrapped his arm around Flora to draw her close.

"Go on, Kat. Open it. It won't bite."

Katniss lifted the lid to reveal a necklace of small white pearls resting atop a cushion of velvet the same dark shade of green as the ribbon woven into her braid. The clasp glinted gold as it caught the lamplight.

She blinked up at them, unbelieving. Where could they have gotten the money for such a gift? It was beautiful, but not the kind of thing she would have expected or even considered. There was no need for such elegant ornamentation in Camp 7.

"It was your grandmother's, my mother's," Flora explained, tears still welling in her eyes. "Your father thought to retrieve it from my cousins at the apothecary before we left. He took it to the city to have it restrung for you."

"I was thinking of saving it for your graduation," her father added, fidgeting with the hem of his vest. "But you're so grown up now, getting superior marks on all your exams and getting along so well here… and you can still wear it when you graduate.

"I just hope I haven't saved it so long already that it's out of fashion," he continued nervously. "The jeweler's daughter told me all the young ladies are wearing chokers these days, I figured she would know more about such trends than an old woodsman..."

Finally, he asked, "What do you think, Kat?"

Katniss didn't know what to say.

It was beautiful. The tiny pearls reflected the light in muted pinks, greens, and violets. She ran her hands over their smooth, almost slick roundness. Nothing so pretty or so valuable had ever belonged to her.

Katniss thought of this necklace, worn by a grandmother who had never even acknowledged her birth, being held in the apothecary while she stood on the porch begging for aid.

She should hate it.

But her mother was already lifting the choker from its box. Her father had gone to so much trouble to give it to her. The cool weight of the pearls came to rest against Katniss's collarbone as Flora fastened the catch at her nape.

She wouldn't let it be a reminder of the bad times. The beads at her throat could not begin to enumerate the many good things that had happened for her family since they came West.

"Daddy, I love it," she said, reaching up to touch her mother's hand where it brushed loose strands of hair from her neck. "Thank you."

Hazelle came out from the kitchen to admire the necklace up close.

"Nice, Catnip," Gale added politely.

Posy's chubby, curious fingers reached to grasp at the lustrous beads, but Pat grabbed the girl up before she could do any damage.

"There is one more gift for you, dear sister," Prim sing-songed. She skipped over to the table, concealing something in her hands.

"Let me guess," Katniss joked, a bit embarrassed by all the attention. "A diamond tiara?"

It was much better.

From behind her back Prim produced a letter and placed it in her sister's palm. Katniss's heart fluttered when she saw the return address on the envelope.

"Prim!" she exclaimed. "How did you manage this?"

Prim beamed. "I was corresponding with Evie Schneider, and since she is in Miss Portia's class this year, I asked her to pass along our address. And then this arrived a few days ago."

Katniss couldn't take her eyes off the familiar script in the address block.

"I hope you don't mind me holding it until now without telling you," Prim apologized.

"Oh, no!" Katniss pulled her sister into a tight embrace. "This is such a wonderful surprise!" She laughed, and Prim kissed her cheek before pulling back.

Katniss began to tear eagerly into the ivory envelope but caught herself, realizing how rude it must appear to her guests. "Forgive me," she said, remembering herself.

Her parents exchanged a knowing glance.

Flora reached from behind her to take her plate. "Why don't you excuse yourself from the table, Katniss, for just few minutes while I clear these plates."

"I don't know about the rest of you," Jesse announced, "but I'm ready for some music. Rory, will you do us the honor and fetch your fiddle?" He winked. "Katniss can read her letter while we warm up."

Katniss tried not to look overly eager as she pushed her chair back from the table.

Sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed nearest the oil lamp, Katniss read the letter once, twice, three times, her hands almost trembling at the salutation, "_Dear Katniss."_ The first read was so quick that the words barely registered, her eyes scanning to the bottom where it was signed, "_Most Affectionately, Your Teacher and Friend, Muriel Portia_."

Katniss hugged the letter to her chest. How many times had she composed letters to her teacher in her head without putting pen to paper? She had thought by now, with so many other students, Miss Portia would have forgotten her.

Upon a more thorough reading, though, Katniss worried that she might be wanting in comparison to the superlatives with which the teacher remembered her. Miss Portia had believed in her. Katniss felt a twinge of guilt at the promise she had surely failed to fulfill. She was so embarrassed that she almost had to put the letter down.

But Miss Portia had included notes about some of her former schoolmates and these Katniss read greedily. Oona Leeg had won a scholarship to the Margaret Morrison Carnegie College in Pittsburgh. Dosia apparently had not been accepted to study there, and Katniss wondered, a bit uncharitably, how the twins would manage to cope with being more than an arm's length apart for probably the first time in their lives. John Bybee, too, would be starting college in fall, with plans to study medicine. Mitchell Clarke still carried a baseball everywhere and talked of going to Pittsburgh for try-outs.

There was little about the students in Katniss's year; she supposed most had gone to work in the mines. Charlie Chisholm was still in school and intended to enter the seminary. Mattie Schneider was now a dressmaker for her family's shop.

Their names brought memories of what seemed to her like another life.

There was a knock from the hallway. Prim's voice was soft through the curtain that separated the girls' beds. "Katniss, Daddy and Rory are ready to sing now."

"I'll be right out," Katniss called back.

She had to scan the letter one more time, for there was something that had made her heart clutch. She read all three pages again from beginning to end. Her silver eyes followed each stroke of the pen, checking to be certain that she hadn't just overlooked it. Her father called to her, and she shoved the letter hastily back into its envelope before rejoining the others. She could always check it again before bed.

Despite the festive occasion, Rory's fiddle sounded mournful. Katniss sang sweetly, but her heart could not soar with the lilt of the melody. "**Deep in the meadow, under the willow…**"

The words took her right back to Twelfth Creek.

_Why would Miss Portia not mention him?_

She felt embarrassed by the way it affected her. It was silly; it had been so long, and they had been children.

_And it wasn't as if we were ever chums._

Yet his was the one name from home that kept coming back to her. She wondered if he had won Head Scholar after she left. If he would take a place at his family's bakery after he graduated. If he still smelled of cinnamon and spice as he had when they sat so near.

_Why is Peeta Mellark's name not in the letter?_

* * *

**A/N: **_This story is cross-posted on AO3. There is a Q&A and **glossary to accompany this chapter** on my tumblr (URL: **rainydayanyways**). I post related images from my blog on the tumblr tag **#SFWHOW**._

**Credits**  
_The inspiration for the train station mix-up is from chapter 2 of L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables (shout-out to Matthew Cuthbert and the sorrel mare!) Matthew gives Anne a string of pearls in chapter 13. In chapter 30, Anne tells Marilla that Miss (Muriel) Stacy caught her reading Ben-Hur during class. The line "Why must people grow up and marry, change?" is a quote from the miniseries Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel. The song "Deep in the Meadow" is from THG, as is the reference to "We wouldn't make it five miles." **As always, I do not own ****The Hunger Games****, the ****Anne of Green Gables** **series, or any of the works referenced in this or other chapters.**_

**_Thank you again to all who have taken the time to read this story! I appreciate every follow, favorite, review, and PM._**


End file.
